


Waiting for the Storm to Break

by Kithri, Tamoline



Series: Intersecting Trajectories [5]
Category: Criminal Minds, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithri/pseuds/Kithri, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamoline/pseuds/Tamoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a storm coming, building up inside Emily. The only question is: when it breaks, will she shatter with it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life is...

I rub my eyes tiredly as I restart my computer and gather my things, getting ready to vacate the office for the evening. It's getting on and I need to leave. Not because I've any life outside these walls, not anymore, but because I've already had a few late nights this week. Any more would be a pattern, and profilers have an inconvenient habit of picking up on those. Then would come questions and then...

And then...

But that's not important. Nothing really seems to be at the moment, but my childhood etched into me the importance of keeping up a good facade. So I'm going to soldier on, pretend everything is fine.

And hope to god no one asks any friendly questions about Emma tomorrow. They're going to come, sooner or later -- we're one big happy family here -- but not tomorrow. Please, not tomorrow.

I can only hope that by the time they do come, I'll be collected enough to answer with a light comment.

It's getting easier. It is. It's only been a week or so since Emma dropped her bombshell and then walked out of my life, but I'm... dealing with it. Just a few days more, that's all I ask. Then let the questions come. I'll handle them.

Just not tomorrow.

 

Movement catches my eye as I get up -- Morgan entering the bullpen. There's something different about him, his walk not quite its usual self-assured strut, the way he's not quite meeting anyone's eyes. It has the flavour of the same weirdness I've been noticing off and on throughout the building over the last week or so. Up until now I'd just dismissed it as one of the many petty power plays that infest the Bureau, the politics that infest any organisation this size.

Maybe normally I would have tried to find out more, but with Emma, and the run up to the same, I just haven’t had the energy.

But now it's reached our team, and that's odd. Hotch usually manages to shield us from that particular kind of irritation.

I should probably go over and see if Morgan wants to talk, or if I can help in some way. I really should.

Even self-interest argues for it -- it’s not unlikely that this shit is going to flow in my direction too.

I close my eyes briefly, then open them again.

Maybe tomorrow.

 

* * * * * *

9:01

One minute since the last time I'd looked at it, and I was finally out of excuses.

I wasn't going to wait more than an hour for her, *again*. And I'd given her the full minute, just in case, somehow, she was going to get here on the hour.

I had really thought -- hoped -- that this time would be different. A new start. A promise that we were actually going to try to fix the widening tears in the fabric of our relationship.

But she didn't even bother to text me some excuse these days when she didn't show.

And she'd left me sitting here on my own. Again.

Sharp-edged disappointment surged like a tidal wave within me, the strength of the feeling nearly taking my breath away.

Tossing back the last of my wine, I signalled for the bill. I had my coat on by the time the waiter handed me my receipt. I had to get out of here. I had to talk to her. To try to talk to her. Again.

I wondered what she'd tell me this time. And whether I was finally angry enough, finally had enough self-respect, to not care.

Oh, Amanda...

 

* * * * * *

The slightly dank air of the motel room greets me as I open the door. The room is cheap and used, which matches my mood far too well at the moment. I haven’t been able to face my apartment since, well, since she left. I let her in, and now she stains every surface. It’s silly, it’s stupid, but I just can’t face that at the moment.

Hopefully by the time I can face my own front door, I’ll just be thinking how stupid I was to allow anyone else access. Thinking of ways to make sure that it never happens again.

Just like I did after Amanda.

There may be strength in not letting fate’s slings and arrows deter me, but I’ve never had that kind of fortitude. I may be a coward, but I like to think that I’m an honest one.

I collapse into bed, and stare blankly upwards for a moment. I'm emotionally full up. I need to relieve the pressure inside of me. I need to go on a hunt.

I just can't.

I know that if I go there, I'll just stare into a drink for a few hours, unable to summon up the energy to do more. Not that it would matter if I did; I won't attract anyone without confidence, and Emma took that with her when she walked out the door.

Damn her.

I just need time; to repair myself, my battered defences.

To make sure this never happens again, that I'm never this vulnerable again.

To destroy the part of me that's still waiting for her to ring my phone; to knock, somehow, on that door.

Whatever. This is unproductive. I grab a book from my ever dwindling supply on the shelf. Whilst I’m reading I can share in the tales and adventures of other people, lose my problems in their own, and find comfort in their victories.

The calm they offer can feel almost addictive in its own way, even if it only lasts until I turn the last page.

Which reminds me, I’ll need to raid Amazon again sometime soon.

I read until the small hours of the morning, until I achieve some measure of tranquillity, then turn the light off, and let my weary body rest.

To sleep, perchance not to dream.

Please.

* * * * * *

The low murmur of voices greeted me as I stalked into our apartment. My apartment, as she'd seen fit to remind me during our last fight. Or maybe it was the one before that. I forgot. Anyway, that didn't matter right now.

By the time I'd kicked off my shoes and hung up my coat, I'd identified the source of the voices as the television. That almost made it worse than my first assumption: that she had company. If someone had called around unexpectedly, I could have understood her having to cancel. Granted, that wouldn't have explained why she didn't so much as text me, but it would at least have been something.

Nowadays, I'd take what I could get.

She was sprawled out on the sofa, comfortable in shorts and a T-shirt. As always, a part of me startled a little to find her here. Like a panther on a bus, she was out of context; exotic wildness surrounded by the mundane. Usually, the contrast thrilled me a little, reminding me all over again that she'd chosen to be here. That she was at home here, with me.

Now, it just set my teeth on edge.

"Fancy meeting you here." My voice was heavy, knives bristling just below the surface of the words.

She turned around, teeth showing white in her tanned face as she flashed me a sleepy smile.

"Hi honey, you're home," she drawled, stretching languorously.

"And so are you." I was brittle ice to her smooth molasses, but then my anger had always tended to run cold.

A confused look drifted across her face, like clouds scudding across a clear blue sky. "Should I be somewhere else?"

"Oh, I don't know." I crossed the room to stand over her, intentionally looming so she would either have to crane her neck or sit upright in order to look at me. It was petty, I know, but I couldn't help myself. "How about a certain fancy restaurant, having dinner with your *girlfriend*."

She blinked at me, eyes wide enough to show me pupils like gaping pits, irises reduced to a mere sliver of colour around the edges. I filed the observation away somewhere I didn't have to think about it. Like the flush in her cheeks, the faint sheen of sweat on her skin. The way she kept blinking owlishly at me, like she was having trouble focusing. File it away, file it all away. It didn't mean anything important.

Because I loved her. And she loved me. And when we were good...

This was just a hiccup. Nothing else. I'd never felt like this about anyone.

Even if most of what I felt at the moment was anger.

"Oh, right. That. I'm so sorry, baby. I..." Forgot. She forgot. *Again.* Stood me up. *Again.* Let me down. *Again.* "I was busy."

She swung her legs off the sofa and levered herself to her feet. Her expression was open and honest, as guileless as a child's.

"So busy you couldn't even text me? Really? What was so urgent?"

"Work stuff." She waved one hand dismissively. "It was pretty intense -- not the kind of thing I could really break away from to check the time, let alone send a text. I'll tell you about it later, when I've decompressed a little."

Her arms went around my neck, a swaying half-step pressing our bodies together. I moved away, breaking her embrace, trying not to wince at the hurt in her eyes. I wasn't going to fold so easily. Not this time.

"And afterwards?"

"Well, then I was so frazzled I, uh, I kinda forgot." Now she was displaying guilt and contrition. Distress at having abandoned me. "I'm so sorry."

She probably even meant that. Against my will I felt myself start to thaw a little, my anger ebbing just a touch, just enough for me to think of forgiveness. But then she spoke again.

"I know you're mad, but-"

"Mad?" I folded my arms, shot her a Look that should have chilled her to the bone. "No, *mad* was a few flake-outs ago. Now, I'm fucking *angry*."

She jerked back like I'd slapped her, fury flashing bright and hot where mere moments ago there'd been rueful apology.

"I told you, I was *busy*." Her voice rose as she spoke, so that the last word was an irate yell.

"And what about all the times before that?" I dropped my arms to my sides, felt my hands clenching into fists. Despite that, my tone remained low and measured. A part of me felt obscurely proud of that small achievement. "Once is chance, twice is coincidence and three times is enemy action. How many times has it been for you, Amanda? How long should I keep giving you the benefit of the doubt? How many times should I believe your excuses?"

"Oh, I'm the *enemy* now?" She screamed the words into my face, trying to make me flinch. I refused to budge, meeting her gaze steadily even as every muscle seemed to vibrate with tension.

"Sometimes I wonder."

Things went downhill from there and stayed bad until the morning, when she greeted me with a sheepish smile and a heartfelt apology that melted my heart.

Just like always.

Sometimes, love was hard.


	2. An inspector calls

The next morning progresses just like the one before it up until the point where I get a phone call telling me to go to an interview room on the fifth floor.

I stare at the phone for a second after I put it down. Irrationally, I feel a sudden urge to run from the building, my pulse racing as my body tries to ready itself for flight.

This kind of message is *never* a good thing.

But the past is another country, and I will *not* be a slave to my memories. Now isn't then, and this -- whatever it is -- isn't *that*. Lightning doesn't strike the same spot twice.

(Aside from those times when it does.)

So. I've been summoned. I suppose I'd better obey.

 

* * * * * *

 

I blinked and quickly came to a halt before I plowed into the bulky form of Simons.

I really was getting far too distracted by my ongoing drama with Amanda. I didn't think that it had affected my work yet -- I was too good at focussing for that -- but it was encroaching on my spare moments more and more.

I hadn't seen her at all yesterday after work.

I hoped that she was alright.

"Sorry," I said to Simons contritely. "Haven't had my first cup of coffee yet."

Instead of the easy smile I was hoping for, or even the irritation I probably deserved, there was a brusque... something. Anger? Disgust?

"It's alright," he said, his words belying what I thought I had seen in his eyes. "Agent Prentiss." he nodded and moved off, leaving looking after him.

What was up with him?

I tried to make it a point of principle not to analyse my fellow agents, but...

I was wrapped up enough in my thoughts that I almost missed that the next person I saw in the office, Barlow, looked away before our eyes could meet.

As I walked the rest of the way to my desk, I paid my full attention to the rest of the office for the first time in weeks. I realised consciously something I think I had already known, but just put on the backburner behind the mess with my girlfriend.

I was being treated almost like a pariah, like a ghost. My fellow agents, my team, my *friends* were avoiding my gaze, keeping out of my way and sneaking looks when they thought I wasn't looking.

When had things gotten so bad? I realised that I had been a bit off these last few weeks, but...

This hurt.

It was the kind of isolation I'd gotten from my family and, stupidly, never thought to get here.

It was the kind of betrayal I thought I had left behind in the many high schools I had attended.

Suddenly I was the unpopular girl who no one wanted to talk with all over again.

The cynical part of me wondered exactly what I had been thinking would happen.

Everyone hurt you. Everyone betrayed you.

When, not if.

Fine. I had survived all this once, I could do it again.

I got a coffee from the kitchen, then went straight to my desk, ignoring everyone else in the office.

I had work to do.

 

My phone range when I was in the middle of typing up an analysis.

"Agent Prentiss speaking."

"Agent Prentiss, please report to interview room 3a." A woman's voice, vaguely familiar; a secretary to one of my boss' bosses, I thought.

If my instincts weren't mistaken, this was the beginning of the next act.

So.

I suddenly wished that Amanda was here to back me up, but maybe it was best that she wasn't. I didn't want her to get tarred with whatever brush was being aimed at me.

I could handle this myself.

 

* * * * * *

 

Maybe whatever it is can help distract me from my brooding. But I don't feel that optimistic as I get to my feet.

I can't help but notice that Morgan avoids looking at me as I leave the bullpen. Huh. Interesting. No one else is looking shifty, though, which is a good sign. It means that I'm neither the only one being interrogated on whatever this is, nor the last to know.

A grey haired man and a mousy haired woman wait for me there. They're both dressed in immaculate suits. I can't make out too much about their features because they're sitting in front of a window, daylight shrouding them and making them difficult to look upon. The air conditioning is set just a little too low and, as I sit down, I can feel a gentle breeze down my back. All simple tricks designed to throw me a little off my game. Which isn't to say that they won't be effective.

 

* * * * * *

 

The looks and the whispering seemed to intensify during the long walk from my desk to the interview room.

Pretty much as expected.

Incipient blood always attracts the pack, and I had the feeling I was walking wounded, even if I didn't know why yet.

I kept my back straight and my expression easy and confident.

No sense in showing weakness. It only ever makes things worse.

I’d learned *that* lesson young.

Interview room 3a was small and cold. The lights were too bright, and something in the ceiling kept making a low, teeth-scraping hum. The chair I was directed to was some kind of refugee from the seventies; a molded plastic throwback to a simpler, less ergonomic time. I shifted a little, trying in vain to get comfortable, before recalling that such movements could also be a sign of nervousness or guilt. Hell, being in here like this was making me *feel* guilty, and I hadn't even done anything wrong. Had I? I mean, technically my relationship with Amanda was against bureau policy, but it wasn't exactly the crime of the century. It wasn't precisely a secret, either. At least not from the rest of the team.

I considered the men across from me. They'd introduced themselves as Agents Barnes and Corelli. I didn't know either of them; had never even so much as passed them in the corridor. That was unusual in an office this size. They were in their forties, crisply attired in neat black suits. Corelli was taller, with black hair; Barnes was shorter and blond-ish. Both wore identical masks of polite neutrality. This whole set up stank of internal affairs.

What exactly was I being accused of?

 

* * * * * *

 

I sigh internally. Apparently it's going to be one of *those* interviews.

It doesn't help that I genuinely have no idea what this is about. I don't have a story to tell, a spin to prepare.

Unless... Surely this can't be about Emma?

What I did was against regulations, but surely they wouldn't be coming down like *this* because of that.

Surely.

But I can still *her* saying 'It wasn't anything personal...' in that southern drawl and I know I'm not even fooling myself about that one.

No matter what logic has to say on the matter.

"Agent Prentiss, please sit down," the woman says. I find my mind grasping onto the fact. The FBI is still something of a boy's club, so I'd expected...

I'm slipping. His chair is oriented slightly towards hers, the centre of power, not the other way around.

In the midst of all my internal chaos, I still can't help but give a slight, silent cheer for this minor reversal of the roles.

"We'd like to ask you some questions, beginning with some of the events of May 22nd."

I cast my mind back. What had I been doing then?

"Could you confirm that's when former agent Alvarez," What? 'Former' agent? When did *that* happen? "Approached you to do some profiling for his unauthorised investigation." Statement, rather than a question. This is just a routine set of questions... or maybe they're hoping to make me think it is before springing the real interrogation on me.

I've had experience with both circumstances, from both directions. I'm hoping for the former, but the lingering, intertwined, presences of both Emma and *her* means that all my instincts are screaming the latter.

What the hell did Alvarez do? And did Emma, somehow, have something to do with this?

It's pure paranoia, I know, but I can't help tensing internally, waiting for the axe to fall.

I answer, calmly, as if I have nothing to hide.

I really hope that I have nothing to fear, but I don't believe it.

I feel like a dam, cracked, ready to burst. I feel like a pencil balanced on its tip and on the brink of falling, like a faultline just before an earthquake. I feel like a storm, ready to break.

I'm nowhere near in a fit state for this, not now.

I need to find my balance. I need to release my stress, get back to equilibrium. I need to hunt.

But first I just need to get through the next few hours.

 

* * * * * *

 

The questions come quick and fast.

What did I do on the afternoon of the 25th, after leaving the crime scene?

Did I recognise any of these people?

Why was the paperwork in this case filed late?

I answered as best as I could. Some of the mistakes were just that, some of them were covering for Amanda's increasingly erratic behaviour over the last month or two, some I couldn't answer. Remembering the exact details of my movements a month or so later was something I couldn't just do, no matter how many skeptical expressions the agents opposite flashed me.

And worse was the realisation that I simply couldn't prove my movements on any of those occasions that I could remember.

Moments spent outside the office, but not in the presence of other agents.

Moments that happened to all of us, but every time I answered that I couldn't prove my whereabouts, Barnes made another little note on the paper in front of him, and I felt slightly more sick.

Whoever has set me up had known exactly which moments to pick.

And there was only person who knew about me to do that, no matter how hard my mind looked for another explanation.

My partner.

My lover.

Amanda.

I couldn't believe it, yet I didn't see any other choice.

 

* * * * * *

 

Despite my misgivings, the questioning goes curiously smoothly. Nothing unexpected. I have to admit that I'm just not sure on several points, and I'm told to elaborate on some of the details, by paper naturally. Before I really know it, my hand is being shaken and I'm being informed that I may be called upon at a later date. And that, of course, I should keep the details of this interview confidential.

Being out of there should make me feel better. It doesn't. Instead I'm left with the feeling like the sword of Damocles is hanging over my head, liable to drop at any moment, but not having a clue when.

It brings to mind Emma.

It brings to mind *her*

The two are starting to merge, just another compartment that Emma has managed to infiltrate and make her own. Another place I can't escape from her. Only this place is bitter, toxic, poisoning even the good memories I have left of her.

On the bright side, it's becoming easier to cut her out of my heart, to treat Emma just like I treated *her*.

And it should be another bulwark against ever engaging in this damnable foolishness again, another way I can scar my heart to stop it ever loving.

But I'm full up. I need to let everything out, to release the tension.

And I have nothing. Emma left me with nothing.

I haven't even been able to face going to the club since...

Enough. I can try and deal with this after work.

I don't have time now, I don't have the energy. I don't have the composure.

And I *refuse* to show any cracks at work, especially now I'm under scrutiny, however peripherally.

 

* * * * * *

 

Corelli slapped a plastic folder on the table, disrupting my train of thought.

"Do you know what this is?" he growled.

I glanced at the cover of the folder. "It's the MacAndrews file. One of my current cases."

"What was it doing at your apartment?" Barnes leaped in.

I blinked at him. Oh god. "What do you mean?" I whispered, hoping I'd misheard.

"This was found in your apartment this morning. Why did you have it there?"

They'd searched my place. I couldn't believe it, but there it was.

They must have had reason. Good reason.

I just prayed that, somehow, that reason was something other than Amanda.

I just couldn't think of any other option.

And she *had* been around last night. She could easily have planted it then.

If she’d had reason. 

Maybe, if she’d been directed. I’d heard of worse things happening, if not to fellow agents.

The room swam in front of my face.

This couldn't be happening.

It was.

I had to get my game face on, and try and fight my way out of this as best I could.

I was backed into a corner.

If only the truth would be my shield, but in this kind of battle it was a marginal ally, at best.

I just didn't have any other choice.

Conspirator. Liar. Traitor.

Those words would be my legacy within the bureau.

And I refused to let that happen.

 

* * * * * *

 

As I enter the office, Morgan gives me a glance, information passing wordlessly between us. A shared secret. I give him a small smile, what comfort I can muster. It isn't much - I'm too full up - but he seems to relax a little anyway. At least now he's not the only one around who knows. I can't imagine that he's taking this well either. He put so much work into the case. Maybe he knows more than me. Maybe not. Either way I won't find out until later, until the dust has settled a little bit.

I wish that there was more I could do, but there isn't. Not now.

 

* * * * * *

 

They didn't have enough to convict me. Not yet. The file wasn't enough, not by itself.

And everything else was circumstantial.

Not that it mattered. Just the rumours that I had been leaking information, overlooking suspects even deliberately fouling investigations would be enough to sink me without any kind of trial.

How do you disprove a negative?

No one was ever going to want to work with me again. Unless I somehow managed to prove my innocence, I was finished in the bureau.

The suspension without pay, pending the outcome of the internal affairs investigation, was really the least of my problems.

Naturally I wasn't even allowed to go back to my desk. They had someone go and collect my things -- well, those items I was allowed to take with me -- and then security escorted me off the premises. They'd taken my car for 'testing,' so I had to catch the bus.

It wasn't until I was perched on the worn seat, clutching my bag like a lifeline, that it started to hit me hard. This had been what I wanted for so long. Even if I managed to avoid prison, what was I going to do? Who'd want a fed thrown out for corruption? What would...?

No. I had to stop this now. These kind of thoughts were not only unproductive, they were actively harmful. But what could I actually do? Trust that the system would work? That the truth would out, and there'd be hugs and puppies and rainbows waiting at the end of the tunnel? That the light *wasn't* an oncoming train?

Somehow, I couldn't find it in myself to look on the bright side. But what I needed right now, much more than a positive mental attitude, was information. Why was IA investigating me in the first place? 

The obvious answer: the same person who must have given them access to all that information. Access to my home. Access to my life. Except... Except I just couldn't believe it.

We may fight occasionally, we may have our problems, but Amanda and I loved each other. She wouldn't do this to me. To us. She wouldn’t tell IA anything unless she was under extreme duress.

Would she?

I couldn't believe it.

I had to believe that me, *us*, meant more to her than that.

I had to.

 

* * * * * *

 

The similarities are just too much.

It’s hitting me harder and harder now.

I need out... but I’ve got to get through the rest of the day first.

And I'm far too much of a selfish bitch to give Morgan much when I feel that I need everything I have for myself.

Except that...

Godammit, Morgan's a friend, and even I'm not that self centered.

This isn't the past, no matter how much it feels like a rerun at the moment.

Pulling myself together -- from the effort it takes, it almost feels like it's a physical process -- I take a detour by his desk.

"Hey," I say quietly.

"Hey Prentiss," he replies cautiously, noncommittally. "What's up?"

"Want to go grab a bite to eat?" He doesn't answer for a moment and so I clarify, "Somewhere that isn't here."

That's enough to tip the balance and he nods. "Sure thing."

Apparently both of us are feeling a little claustrophobic in this place.

 

I look at Morgan over the rim of my coffee cup, considering my next words carefully. Our sandwiches have been reduced to crumbs; our coffee mostly-drunk. We've done office gossip (excepting the obvious) and shooting the breeze. Our thoughts are starting to circle around the necessity of going back to the office, with all that entails. Now is the time.

In the end, I decide that simple and straightforward is the way to go.

"Want to talk about it?"

Morgan sighs, taking a sip of his coffee before looking up and meeting my gaze.

"We allowed to?" There's an ocean of bitterness lying beneath those words. "I don't know what they said to you, but they gave me the distinct impression that they'd throw the book at me if I so much as thought about discussing their little interrogation."

Sounds like he'd had a much harder time of it than I had. Not something I would be mentioning.

I shrug. "We both know already. I think they're more concerned about word getting out to the people they haven't questioned yet."

He fastens onto that point like it's a lifebelt.

"You think they're going to talk to everyone else, then? It's not just us?"

"That's the impression I got."

He taps his fingers on the table, drinks, looks away, looks back.

"Then yeah, I guess I do."

 

Like me, the IA interrogation was the first he'd heard about Alvarez no longer being an agent.

"I mean, he'd been incommunicado for a few days, but that's not exactly unusual for him. I never expected anything like *this*. I want to believe it's all a misunderstanding, but we all know how obsessed he is over that case. The number of times I had to pull him back from the edge of..." He shakes his head. "So I can believe he'd cut corners. But bringing IA down on his head? I don't know, Prentiss. I just wish I knew what's going on. And whether it's going to drag the rest of us down with it. All of us helped him out in one way or another. Hell, I even helped him persuade some of you. I mean, the guy's my friend, you know? He's one of the good guys. At least, I thought he was."

"You don't know that he isn't," I say softly. "Even if he did do something he shouldn't have, I'm sure his intentions were good."

"Yeah, well, you know what they say about good intentions."

"But wouldn't it make a difference? If he was trying to do the right thing in the wrong way, rather than..." I gesture vaguely, suddenly reluctant to even speak the alternative aloud.

He considers it. "I guess," he admits, grudgingly. "But we don't know *what* his intentions were. We don't even know what he did." A heavy sigh escapes his lips. "And that's the worst part."

"I know." I reach out my hand and rest it lightly on his forearm. "Look, Morgan, from what they said -- to both of us -- I don't get the impression that this is a general witch-hunt." My own hang-ups notwithstanding. "They're just trying to get all the facts."

"I... guess." His tone his grudging, but he's listening.

"And, whatever it turns out to be, you're not to blame. Alvarez is responsible for his own actions."

"But I..."

"You're a profiler, not a telepath. And, you said it yourself: he's one of the good guys. You couldn't have known."

He digests that in silence, but I think I've hit home. His shoulders are straighter, and guilt is no longer hanging around him like a cloud.

"You've got friends, Morgan. You're not on your own with this." Not like I am.

That gets a smile. "I know, Prentiss. And thank you."

I give him a grin. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel that difficult. “Any chance you could thank me by taking some of the reports off my desk?”

He laughs. “Not a chance.”

"Ah well. I thought it was worth a shot." I glance at my watch, then stand up and gather my things. "Now let's get back so I can do some of the work you refuse to free me from."

 

The laughter I shared with Morgan doesn’t last long.

The rest of the day goes almost smoothly, if you don't count the fact that I feel like I'm slowly falling apart. One by one, my other team-mates leave the bullpen and come back a little while later, the same slight traces of shame and confusion on their faces that I imagine were on my own. We're profilers. Knowing people is what we do for a living. How could we *not* have seen this, whatever 'this' is? Despite what I said to Morgan, we *all* feel that instinctive, irrational conviction that somehow, on some level, we *should*. *Have*. *Known*.

Just because it's irrational doesn't mean you can ignore it.

As each person returns, they look quickly around, to see who else is in on the dirty secret. With each new initiate, the overall tension decreases, just a little. No one seems unduly upset so, hopefully, whatever the inquisitors are looking for, they haven't found it amongst us.

I'm glad for the others, I really am, but I can't help feeling that this is all my fault, that everyone blames me for this. It's stupid, I know, but I can't help imagining *her* poison trickling into their ears, blackening me in their eyes.

It *is* stupid, I do *know* that, but I just need to get out of here as soon as possible.

I'm *not* going to be staying late tonight.


	3. Desperate Measures

JJ catches me as I'm leaving work, dragging me into a secluded spot. At one time, this would have made my heart beat faster, whether from anxiety or from something else. Now it just reminds me of something one of the other women in my life might have done, and it twists the knife a little harder.

"Hey," she says, the word soft, questioning. It's an opening; a prelude. She obviously wants something from me. I just don't know what that is yet.

"Hey," I reply in turn, but the word is a little more clipped coming from me. It's not that I want to rebuff her -- it's the most friendly she's been with me since... But I'm just not sure how much I have left to give. I'm worn, bloody, needing to lick my wounds.

I need to not be here.

"So, how long have you known?" She doesn't need to elaborate. It's obvious what she's referring to, though her reason for thinking that I was on the inside scoop isn't. I wasn't *aware* I had that kind of a reputation.

Not for a while.

So I shrug. "Today. Just like the rest of the office."

"Oh," she says, her face falling a little. "I thought... You've been closed off recently." Her voice holds more sympathy than I could have imagined after recent events. "I thought this might be the reason why."

Her words drive a fresh spike of pain through me. Before I know it, before I can stop it from happening, words burst from my lips. "Emma left me seven days ago. To go back to her boyfriend."

It hurts and it hurts and I *still* can't cry, can't achieve release. I can't even focus on JJ as she says, "I'm sorry. I didn't know..."

"I'm sorry, too," I force out. "Sorry I haven't been able to give you more..." I make a small, abortive gesture with one hand as I try to explain. Reaching out? Pushing away? Even I don't know. If I was thinking clearly I could put this better, but I can't. I just can't. "You deserve so much more of my suffering for what I did to you, but I just don't have anything left to give you. I'm sorry."

Silence.

When I look up, JJ's face greets me with thin lips and a tight expression. Finally she says, "I swear you are *the* most infuriating woman..." She stops again, clearly making herself take a deep, calming breath before continuing. "There is absolutely no way I can talk to you about this right now, and have it go somewhere good. But don't think that this conversation is over." On that note, she turns on her heel, striding quickly away from me before I can even begin to formulate a response. Not quite a storm, but definitely not just a breeze.

I can't think of this now. It's too much.

One part of me can't help but be disgusted at my weakness, that I allowed anyone the ability to do this to me *again*. But that feeling is still a distant second place to the cold despair that's settling inside me, weighing me down. It's getting stronger though, day by day, an old friend returning. It feels oddly right, and that's just wrong.

I need to go on a hunt. Maybe, if I succeed, everything will be clearer in the morning.

After all, tomorrow is another day.

Right?

 

The heat of the club is stifling after the cold night air. I can feel myself starting to melt, my resolve draining out of me as the sweat pours from my skin. I feel breathless, like there isn't enough oxygen in the air I'm breathing. Maybe this was a bad idea. But I square my shoulders, and make myself head into the crowded interior. Part of me -- a large part -- wants to turn around and run for the dubious comfort of my hotel room. It's at least partly stubbornness that keeps me moving forward, into the throng.

I try to lose myself in the music, but the pounding bass line batters my ear drums and makes my stomach roil uneasily. Every brush of someone's body against mine makes my hackles raise. The inescapable babble of voices sets my teeth on edge. None of these are good signs.

It's too hot in here, too crowded. Too loud.

Too much.

And yet, I need this with an intensity bordering on physical pain. I need to hunt. I need to find the release it brings me. I need to regain the equilibrium I lost when *she* knocked my world off its axis.

I take a deep, unfulfilling breath, trying to compartmentalise. Push the discomfort away, bring desire to the fore. Lock away all the baggage that's weighing me down. Head up, shoulders back, eyes forward. Fake the confidence I usually don't even have to think about.

I'm as ready as I'll ever be...

 

...Which, it turns out, isn’t nearly ready enough.

Oh, the night is filled with music and dancing and ladies romancing. Just not for me.

It's an hour or so down the line and my hunt -- such as it was -- seems to have ground to a halt.

I'm the same as I've always been, and I've always been popular here, so why aren't I getting so much as an interested glance tonight?

Eau de Desperation. Not a turn on in anyone's book, and not a scent I'm accustomed to wearing.

But I can't seem to find it in myself to care.

I should be putting my mask back on, putting myself out there. Instead, I'm sitting by myself at the bar, knocking back the latest of probably too many drinks in an effort to numb myself enough to go and get what I need.

It's not working.

I drain the last of the drink I don't really want, then raise my hand to signal the bartender for another.

"Let me get this one."

The voice is familiar, even through the alcohol buzz. Despite the way my gut clenches, I school my features into just the right kind of smile -- generically pleasant, but not too friendly -- and look up at the speaker.

"Fancy meeting you here."

She smiles back with what looks like genuine happiness. "Hi Emily. How have you been?"

Heartbroken. Or maybe just plain broken. Not that I have any intention of saying that aloud.

"Fine, thanks. You?"

"I'm good, thank you." She pulls up a stool beside me.

"You look good," I say, unthinkingly. As soon as the words are out of my mouth I want to cringe, to hide, to bolt without looking back. She does look good, all raven hair and smooth, olive skin. Her eyes are a rich brown, so dark they're almost black, and they're looking at me with frank appreciation.

"Thanks," she says, dimpling a little. "So do you."

"Thank you." What else can I say?

"So, about that drink...?"

I open my mouth to say no, thank you; to make some excuse or other. Instead, I hear myself say: "Thanks. I'll have a double vodka tonic."

This will not end well.

 

As I gently drift into unwelcome consciousness, I become aware that I'm definitely still a little drunk from the night before.

"Emma," I murmur at the back in front of me. How could you let me do this to myself?

But that isn't Emma.

It's never going to be Emma again.

The tousled dark hair on the pillow in front of me seems vaguely familiar, even in my current state.

Mona.

Crap.

How could I be here? Last night after a certain point is a complete blur.

How could I let this happen? I don't get this drunk, not anymore.

How could I do this to her? Again? It was like a bad dream before when I had to tell her I really wasn't interested in more than a one night stand.

Can I do that again? I'm broken, so very broken, shards lying on the floor.

I'm a coward, such a coward, but I really can't. I rise from the bed slowly, cautiously, doing my best not to rouse the sleeper. Her breathing remains constant as I make it out of the covers. Safe. Luckily I can find my clothes easily enough, carefully retrieving them from where they lay scattered around the room. I'm composed enough to make a quick check of my possessions and then I'm out, leaving Mona behind me.

The worst of it is that I almost wish that I could go back to that foggy half state when I was just aware of another warm body in the bed with me. When I thought, just for a little while, that Emma was with me.

I've got to get rid of her from my heart. She's killing me.

 

My arrival at work later that morning does not go unnoticed.

"Hey, Emily. How's life treating you this morning?" Morgan asks cheerily.

And far, far too loudly.

I wince. "Better before you boomed at me, even if it is unreasonably bright today."

"Had yourself a good night?" It's around this point that I notice his good humour is a little forced this morning, and the reason why -- the Alvarez mess -- crashes back down on me.

Still, no need to dampen the mood of the rest of the team. I summon up a mask of lazy satisfaction and purr, "Oh, Morgan, you have no idea."

His grin broadens, becoming noticeably smirk-like. "Got to have a word with your girl Emma, make sure that she isn't tiring you out too much."

The words hurt somewhere, reopen deep wounds some place else, a place that isn't here. I don't think about that, though. I can't think about that.

My mouth, on auto pilot, replies: "If you can convince her to stop doing *anything* she wants, you're a far better person than I."

It's true. So very, very true.

From across the room, I notice JJ's watchful gaze, her eyes holding something that looks far too much like thoughtful concern for my liking. Her look sharpens for a moment as our eyes meet, then she breaks it off and turns away.

Meanwhile, Morgan is shaking his head, a rueful -- and, perhaps, a touch more genuine -- smile on his face. "Uh uh," he says, emphatically. "Not going there."

I smile back like my heart isn't aching and say. "What's that? The great and powerful Derek Morgan backing down from a challenge?"

"There are challenges and then there's suicide. I may only have met Emma once, but she strikes me as the kind of woman who always gets what she wants. *Always*."

Yes. And then she throws it away when she doesn't want it anymore. But I can't say that, so I start to muster another witticism only to break off when I notice that JJ has inexplicably joined us.

"Good morning, you two," she says, with her usual pleasant smile. "Sorry to interrupt, but I just want a quick word with Emily."

She does? Why? Surely she isn't going to continue what we started yesterday. This is neither the time nor the place.

I keep my expression light, showing only a normal and reasonable amount of curiosity.

"Good morning, JJ. What is it?"

"I just wanted to let you know that I managed to get reservations at The Cosmopolitan for lunch. The table's booked for 12:15, so you need to leave at noon on the dot. I have a meeting that's almost certain to overrun, though, so it's probably best if I meet you there."

"The Cosmopolitan?" Morgan raises his eyebrows. "Are you two celebrating or something?"

"No, just taking a proper lunch break for once."

The glint in her eye says I'm buying. I guess that's fair. I owe her, after all.

"And you didn't invite me? I'm hurt." He does the soulful eyes thing at JJ.

"No you're not. Besides, it's going to be epic girl talk. You wouldn't be interested."

"I might be."

"Trust me. You're not." Her smile softens the firmness of her words, soothing away any actual hurt feelings that may be lurking beneath the playacting. Not that I think there are any, really. Morgan's ego is generally a little more robust than that. "Anyway," she continues. "I'd better run. Bye, Morgan. See you later, Emily. Don't be late!" And with a cheery wave, she heads off.

I guess I have a lunch date.

 

Noon arrives with the speed and inevitability of an oncoming train. Great. The one time I actually want the morning to go slowly, it races by. That's life, I suppose. This time I'm the one at the table, waiting for JJ. The pause in tempo doesn't help settle my nerves any. I know it's the silence before an oncoming bullet, the lull before the storm.

When she comes, she's shining brightly. Smiling to the world, lighting up the room. The front may not be a good sign -- she's feeling like she needs to hide her mood -- but it's far from the worst.

"Emily," she says, like she hasn't just seen me less than an hour ago in the office.

"JJ," I greet her a little laconically, still unsure of what exactly is going on here.

Small talk is apparently the order of the day, at least whilst we are ordering. As soon as the menus have gone, though, her demeanour changes and she's skewering me with her deep blue eyes.

"Why?" she asks, simply.

"'Why' what?"

"Why did you think I wanted you to hurt? Why did you think that would help?" She leans forward a little, eyes narrowing. "Why did you think I'm the kind of person who would appreciate that kind of thing?"

I take a moment to think before answering. "It's just what I deserve after how I treated you. I guess... I wanted you to know that I didn't take it lightly."

She closes her eyes a moment. "Oh, Emily..." Not anger, nor disappointment. If I had to nail it, I'd say empathy.

I'm not too numb at the moment to feel bad for that. She always did care too much for her own good. "Sorry," I say. I don't specify what for.

"Did you really think that might help repair things between us?"

I shake my head, almost convulsively. "Not at all. It's nothing compared to what I did to you. For that matter, nothing compared to..." I trail off. This isn't a time to compare wounds, especially self-inflicted ones.

"Compared to?" Naturally, she wasn't letting me off that easily.

I look down at my hands, fidgeting nervously on the table."Telling you about... Amanda," I almost have to force the word out, then adjust my face into a smile and deliberately lighten my tone. "You must have realised by now how hard it is for anyone to drag secrets out of me. Even me, apparently."

She ignores my false levity. "Was it that difficult?"

I go back to examining my fingers. "You're one of two people I've ever told, and the other was around at the time."

"Oh."

I look up. "I didn't mean to make you..." I say and wave a hand in the air.

She regards me steadily. "I haven't forgiven you."

"I didn't think you would." It hurts anyway, a cold burning sensation over and above the general ache.

"But I would like to try and rebuild what we had."

"Really?" Despite my best efforts, I can't help but be hopeful.

"It may be stupid, but I still like you." She contemplates her drink for a moment. "More precisely, I like the part of you that did its best to reach out when you thought I needed it, even when things were at their worst."

I smile a little sadly. "I couldn't not." I’ve always liked her too much not to.

She looks at me. "So, tell me about what happened with Emma."

 

For the first time in a little over a week, I open the front door to my apartment. It's just like I left it, with an extra dash of shattered dreams.

Talking with JJ may not have helped much, but it was enough.

Enough to be here again, my violated sanctuary. I should never have let anyone else (Emma) around here.

As I go further in, I see everything is as it was when she left, and I resist the urge to start moving everything around. It hurts, but it's a useful pain. A necessary pain.

I have to make sure that this never happens again, that I never leave myself so vulnerable to someone else.

It's what I promised myself after Amanda.

I'll do better this time.

But the first thing I need to do is have my long delayed talk with Celia.

I finally feel like I actually can.

Thank you, JJ.

 

"Hello, stranger," Celia chirps from the other end of the phone. "Been busy at work?"

It's only been a couple of months since I've needed to hunt, since she would have had a far different assumption about this call, since...

Her.

"Something like that," I say, noncommitally.

"What's happened?" she asks, instantly going on the alert.

"Can we meet up tomorrow morning?" I ask instead of answering her question. "Usual time, usual place."

"why are you talking to me, not..." I can practically hear the gears click into place for her. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"

"I don't want to talk about it now," I say stiffly, then relent a little. JJ has given me that much. "She's gone."

"That *bitch*!" celia explodes, apparently deciding to ignore my less than stellar record with relationships and move straight to blaming the other party. "She-," she breaks off. "Of course I'll meet up with you. Unless you want me to come over tonight?" she makes it a question.

I can't. It still feels too raw here. And I still need to collect myself.

"Thanks, but I'll be fine." For certain values of fine.

"See you tomorrow, then," she says. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"Will do," I say.

For certain values of taking care of myself. 

 

Even Celia’s usual smile can’t hide her worry. As soon as she sees me, she gets to her feet and hugs me tightly.

"Hey," she says softly, and holds me two, three, four beats longer than usual before releasing me.

Just enough to let me know how concerned she is, not long enough to suffocate me.

"Hey."

She waits until I’m seated before continuing, skipping our usual small talk to cut straight to: "So, what happened?"

‘What did you do?’ are the words that she’s polite enough not to ask, but they're written all over her face.

How well we know each other, she and I.

"It’s not like that," I say, answering the question she didn’t ask. My 'Not this time,' remains unspoken. "We never talked about her past, not really. And-" I break off.

"Yes?"

"She has someone else. An actual relationship. A boyfriend. That she went back to."

"I see," Celia says in a quiet, deadly voice.

It's a tone I’ve heard before...

* * * 

Who was that knocking on my door? I hadn’t been expecting anyone.

Certainly not Amanda. It it was her, I didn’t quite know how I’d react.

Though some kind of explanation might be nice.

I opened the door to find Celia, bag in hand, standing in front of me.

"Hey, stranger," she said, her words not containing their usual exuberance.

"Hi," I said, then unable to resist asking the obvious question, "What are you doing here? I thought you were settled in DC?"

Heedless of her luggage, she stepped forward and hugged me, tightly. "You look like shit," she advised me. "And a little birdie told me you might appreciate some company."

I couldn’t help smiling a little, although it felt almost physically painful. "Who was your spy?"

I never reveal my sources." She quirked a grin, which quickly faded into a plaintive expression as she looked at me with large eyes. "Well, are you going to let me in?"

"I guess I don’t have much of a choice," I said, looking at the carry bag she was toting. "Come on then."

I left her in the living room while I picked the guest room up a little to make it look neat. Well, neat-ish. A little warning might have been nice.

Then again, given how I was feeling at the moment, a little warning might have given me sufficient time to come up with an excuse as to why she couldn’t visit.

I suspected that was certainly what she thought.

 

Back to the living room, and we chatted for a while. She sipped a beer, whilst I stuck to juice. The way I was feeling, alcohol would only make things complicated. More complicated. And I'd had enough of 'complicated' to last a lifetime.

Finally, just as I knew that she would, she poked the elephant in the room.

“So, what’s going on with you and work?”

I looked down at the ground. I really didn’t want to talk about it. “Don’t you already know?”

“I know what people are saying,” she said, an acid edge to her voice. “I want to know what actually happened.”

“I’m not really sure I know,” I murmured, and then went through the facts as I knew them. I tried to be as dispassionate as I could be, but Amanda just kept on sounding worse and worse and Celia’s lips just got thinner and thinner.

After I’d finished, she looked me deep in the eyes and asked, “Emily. Did you do anything else wrong? Are you leaving anything out? Gods knows I wouldn’t judge you, but I have to know right now.”

I shook my head. “No.”

She smiled. “Good. I didn’t think that you would have. But you never know.” Nodding to herself, she slipped her phone out of her handbag and said, in a tone that sent chills down my spine. “Let’s get this sorted out, then.”

Politics. Favours, string pulling, the kind of thing that can make or break careers. I should have stopped her, said that my case should just be left to the wheels of internal affairs.

But I just didn’t feel like I had the strength any more.

I just wanted this to be over.

* * * 

Emma doesn’t deserve whatever hell Celia is going to rain down on her head. For that matter, I’m not sure that Celia really realises who she’s thinking of tangling with.

It would be a fight that almost might be worth watching, if one of the participants wasn’t a friend and the other was... Emma.

“Thanks, but if I wanted you to handle this, I’d have asked you to.” I mean to make my tone strong, resolute, but it just comes out weak, drained.

Celia looks profoundly unconvinced, so I add: “Please.”

It’s enough. Celia scowls and says, “Fine. But don’t expect me to like it.”

I manage a wan smile. “I really can’t please you, can I? You’re not happy when I’m not dating, you’re not happy when I finally do date and end up getting my heart broken. Weren't you the one that told me that the risk was just a part of the game?”

She gives me a grin that almost looks like she isn’t trying a little too hard. “Maybe I just expect more from you, Ms Prentiss.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t know why you’d think that, given my history.”

“Obviously you just need to date more. I need some ammunition on you to match the likes of Jake.”

Despite myself, I feel a little better. “Or Matt. God, what a disaster he was.”

“Exactly. So it’s my sacred mission to see you back up on the dating horse as quickly as possible.”

“Thanks.”

“Not a problem.”

As I relax, I realise that I've really really needed this.

Maybe it’ll be enough to help heal the hole inside of me.

Maybe it’ll even leave me up to facing going on a real hunt some time soon, because god knows I’m overdue.

Maybe.


	4. Trudging towards oblivion

The steps stretch before me like the promise of freedom. Work-Emily might be my only real surcease from pain these days, but I can only maintain her flawless exterior for so long. Right now I'm reaching my limit, and I need to just withdraw from prying eyes and the world in general for a while.

Well, that and the thought of a hot shower, even with the anaemic spray of the one back at headquarters, is insanely appealing right about now. Just the thing to work the kinks out of my back and neck. And the fact that the time should give me enough surcease to gather my defenses and last until this evening?

Well, I'm definitely not complaining.

I just wish I could cry.

 

Later, I'm sitting at my desk, trying to make myself care about finishing the open report on my computer. Type, delete, type, delete. Pause. Then type-type-type in a burst of energy, save and send without reading it through. There. Done.

I think I might just call it a day. Hotch hasn't banished us all from the office yet, but the contest is a stupid one. Who *cares* which one of us is the first to walk out the door? What is this, high school?

The urge to just run out of the room rises in me like a scream.

Calm down. I need to calm down. Work-Emily would never do anything like this, and I need to fit within her skin, at least for a little longer. But maybe... Maybe I could get away with such a small deviance in behaviour? Surely no one will notice.

I know that in this office I'm just lying to myself, but I start to gather my things anyway.

"Hey, Emily."

"Yes?" Somehow, I find a smile for Morgan. It feels ill-fitting and strange on my face, but it's what work-Emily would do.

"We're going to grab a few drinks and unwind. Want to come hang out with us?"

Part of me wants to beg off. I don't really feel like being around other people right now, and the more time I spend with the team in a social context, the more risk there is that someone will see through my facade. During work hours, a certain professionalism, a certain distance, is expected. Going out... That's a whole different set of instincts and responses that I have to fake, because it sure as hell isn't coming naturally.

But another part of me, the analytical part, the driving force behind Work-Emily, whispers that I've been doing that an awful lot lately. The numbers don't look at all good. So...

"Sure," I say. "Are you leaving now?"

"Yeah, pretty much. See you out front?"

"Be there in a couple of minutes."

That will hopefully give me time to get my game face on, enough to keep this plate, my life, spinning for a little while longer.

 

Two drinks down, and I'm done. I can already feel the alcohol starting to affect me, making it even harder to maintain my facade. From here the risks multiply exponentially.

I need to leave.

"Later, guys," I give the others a small wave. "I've got a date with a bed that's calling my name."

"And hopefully has a soft woman in it," Morgan teases.

It feels like a shot to the heart despite the lack of malice in his words. I'm peripherally aware of JJ flinching.

I don't. For a long second, I don't react at all. Then work-Emily drags a smile out of me.

"If I'm lucky," I say in response.

I can only hope that no one has noticed my slip.

Probably in vain.

Smiling like everything's fine, I wave at the others and make my exit.

Home (well, my empty apartment) awaits.

 

"Emily, wait a minute." Morgan catches up before the bar is more than a few steps behind me. He must have left just after I did. This smells uncomfortably like an imminent Talk, but I make myself turn and smirk at him.

"Surely you haven't had enough already? Whatever happened to that legendary endurance of yours?"

"Hey, I've still got it, don't you worry about that." A grin flickers briefly on his face, then melts into something more sombre. "I just wanted to talk to you."

Damn.

"Oh? That sounds ominous."

"Not really. I just wanted to let you know that I've got your back."

I stare at him blankly for a moment or two before comprehension dawns. The Alvarez case. Right. He probably thinks that's the reason I've been so off my game lately.

I suppose he's not entirely wrong.

My answering smile is genuine, as are the fond feelings that come with it. Morgan is good people.

"I know. And I've got yours."

"I know that."

Something compels me to break the mood, to add an edge of snark to my next words. "So, are we going to hug or something?"

"I don't know, Prentiss. Wouldn't want to make your girlfriend jealous."

He's joking, I know, but the unexpected reminder hits me like a punch to the gut. It's worse, even, than what he said in the bar a few minutes ago. It's that word. Girlfriend. A reminder of something that never was; something that could never be.

Something I was starting to think that I had.

Before she dashed it all to pieces.

I thought I was getting over this, but I can feel my face freeze, my breath catch in my throat. Maybe a civilian wouldn't have noticed, but Morgan does.

"What is it?" He looks concerned, worried. "What did I say?"

I consider a thousand different responses, but I really have no choice here. It goes against all my instincts, but I have to tell him the truth.

"Emma isn't my girlfriend anymore. She broke up with me."

He winces instinctively. "Damn. I'm sorry. I... guess I kinda put my foot in my mouth, didn't I?"

"That's okay." I shrug. "You weren't to know."

And I'd really prefer that he still didn't. Oh well. Morgan is by far not the worst person I could have blurted this out to, and I'm going to have to tell the rest of the team eventually.

He studies me for a moment, the concern back in spades.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No, I'm fine." Well, I'm functional, which is the next best thing to fine. And I've been doing entirely far too much talking of late.

So, is he going to leave it there?

"Well, if there's anything I can do..." He touches my shoulder lightly, supportively, then breaks the all-too-serious vibe with a sudden grin. "Like, say, if you need a wingman when you're out picking up hot chicks... I'm there."

That startles a laugh out of me. I almost don't recognise the sound of genuine humour from my lips. I swat at him playfully. "You are such a horndog."

He tries -- and fails -- to look innocent.

"I don't know what you mean."

I shake my head, still smiling. "Anyway, I was heading home. You should probably go back inside before the others send out a search party. Goodbye, Morgan."

"Later, Prentiss. Take care."

"You too."

And, on that note, I stride off into the darkness. Somehow, that seems oddly fitting.

 

I barely manage to make in through the door before I slump to my knees, finding it too difficult to even keep myself upright.

It's getting worse.

The pain Emma inflicted has long since been joined by the horrors that form my job. Pain and blood and suffering, mine and other peoples'.

It doesn't really matter.

I'm drowning and I've forgotten how to swim.

Or rather, Emma crippled me, then left me behind.

The heartbreak is nothing compared to the fact that I haven't been able to hunt, to emotionally discharge, since she left.

And now? I'm too far in this hole to even dream of being able to scramble out. This job piles enough emotional detritus on me that I just don't have enough space to recover. To breathe.

After waking up in Mona's bed, I've been avoiding the club, not able to face the thought of running into her again.

And now? I can't even face the idea of being around so many people when I'm not work-Emily.

I gather my energy and get up again. I know what will make me feel better, my drug of choice.

I make my way to my library and pick up a book from a shelf. I don't even bother looking at the cover before focussing on the words. It doesn't really matter. I've read every book here multiple times over.

It's not the thrill of discovering something new, it's the comfort of the old that draws me. It's worlds that aren't this one, where fantastical things exist.

Where I don't.

In the back of my mind, I wonder how long this can continue.

Tomorrow. I can get to tomorrow. That's enough for now.

 

"Emily. A word in my office if you don't mind."

I raise my head from where I was staring blankly at my computer screen to look at Hotch. It's a little hard to tell, but he might look even more serious than usual. And he used my first name, which also isn't a good sign.

It's hard, but work-Emily gets me to my feet.

What would I do without her?

What would be *left* without her?

I don't even let myself think how bad a sign it is that I'm externalising my working self so much.

"Hotch," I say as I close his door behind me.

He gestures towards a chair and waits for me to be seated before continuing.

"Is there anything that you think I should know?" he asks.

I shake my head, keeping my expression open. "Not that I can think of off-hand."

That's true as far as it goes. There's nothing I can share with him that will make this better.

He lets the silence stretch a moment before replying, as if that will encourage me to change my answer. It doesn't. "Really?" he asks, almost delicately.

"Yes." I plunge ahead with the obvious question. "Is there something you want to ask me?" Because he clearly called me in here for a reason, and I doubt he's planning on starting up a sewing circle.

Though he *could* probably do with a new hobby.

He studies me for a moment, dropping his mask of inscrutability enough for me to see the concern in his eyes.

"You've been a little... subdued lately."

"Subdued, sir?" I'm not going to make this easy for him. If he wants to know something, let him ask.

"You lack motivation, and you've started withdrawing from the rest of team. Your general energy levels seem to have decreased and you look like you're having problems sleeping. Do you want me to go on?"

I think I can handle not hearing the rundown.

I guess I couldn't really hope that my slow disintegration would remain unnoticed forever.

Especially not in this office.

"No, sir."

He gives me a searching look, then the edges of his eyes crinkle with something like compassion. "You do know that you can talk to me. If you ever feel the need to."

"Yes. Of course." I need to throw him a bone, give him some explanation for what's happening, and I choose the least personal one I can. The least personal one he might believe. "It's the Alverez case," I say, shrugging.

He's read my file, and I'm certain that he can connect the dots. He proves me right by nodding slowly.

"It doesn't help that we don't know what happened," I add.

Everyone loves a chance to help a friend. Maybe this will distract him. And, truthfully? Having some resolution might help, a little.

"I'll see what I can find out," he says, but he doesn't sound hopeful. "Unfortunately, someone senior seems to want to squelch the details. It must have caused a lot of embarrassment in some quarters."

"Thank you."

I start to rise, thinking the interview done, but he pins me in place with his stare.

"I want you to understand that this meeting is *completely* unofficial. As far as your file is concerned, I haven't noticed anything untoward. But if things don't start to improve in the next couple of weeks, then I *will* have to notice. with everything that entails."

Which means a psych eval. And in my current state, I'm really not certain that I could pass one. I also know that even my usual mental framework is... highly non-standard by FBI evaluation criteria.

I would be taken off the unit.

Just what I need: more stress.

"Understood," I say. "And, thank you."

He didn't need to give me this talk. But I do appreciate that he did.

"Anytime," he says in a clear tone of dismissal.

So.

Two weeks left in the BAU. Because I really can't see any way out of this mess.

It's been a long time since I believed in miracles.

 

* * * * * *

 

It seemed strange to have to be signed into the federal building. To be escorted through the grey, echoing corridors to my boss' -- former boss'? -- office. The summons had been almost unexpected. It had only been just over a fortnight since that first, fateful interview. A fortnight that lasted a lifetime, true, but the mere blink of an eye compared to the grinding of bureaucratic wheels.

Celia could work wonders, not miracles.

So here I was.

I wasn't even allowed to knock at the door. The security guard did that for me, announcing me as if I was a regency debutante attending her first ball. He named me Agent Emily Prentiss.

On the one hand, that was encouraging -- I was still a federal agent. On the other, this entire setup was designed to let me know just much of a technicality the man inside the office considered that to be.

Fear and anger warred with each other.

Anger won, just about.

I didn’t deserve this.

So.

Message received loud and clear. Sir.

The main question in my mind was - was I just a disgraced agent now, soon to be exiled to moulder in some out of the way posting? Or was I considered a political, someone who had been saved by someone up the chain. Not a real agent, but someone to be given at least a modicum of politeness.

Both of the options were crap, but one at least left me a career.

My boss -- SSA Roy Carver -- was trying not to give me any clues. He looked me over, scrutinising me as if he'd never seen me before. It was the kind of look designed to feel like it was lasting forever.

He had apparently never met my mother. She did this so much better than he did. A better look of slight disappointment, too.

I'd never thought that I’d be grateful for those endless lessons in deportment, but there I was.

Very well. Sir.

If he wanted to play these games, I’d play some of my own right back at him. I made a conscious effort, shifted my thinking and started to do something I’d very consciously never done before: start to analyse my superior.

He was spending just a little too long analysing me. He wouldn’t need to do that if I was finished here. Not unless he was trying to figure out the best way to break me and so far I’d been treated with civility, if of an awfully chilly kind.

He took a sip of water. That was a clear sign of nervousness, lending confirmation to my hypothesis, but I didn’t let myself feel relief. I was by no means out of danger yet -- the slightest show of weakness might still be enough to finish me. I suspected that my only shield was that it looked like I was a player.

Dispel that illusion and I’d be bloody meat in the water.

“Agent Prentiss,” he said, fixing me with an icy gaze.

I looked straight back at him, refusing to flinch. “Sir,” I said with strict formality.

Mother would be so proud.

“You must be wondering why you’re here.”

I was actually wondering why he was drawing this out. A trick, a reveal or just covering his ass? Given his manner, I suspected a mix of all three.

“Yes, sir.”

"You are aware that Internal Affairs have been investigating you in connection with a number of certain, ah, improprieties."

Management doublespeak. You had to love it. Didn’t matter where you were, it always turned up.

“Yes, sir.”

He paused again, obviously trying to draw out the tension, make me react.

I refused to give him the pleasure.

"I've just been informed that they have now concluded that part of their investigation.” Another pause, which I didn’t bother to respond to. “Based on their recommendations, you are reinstated as an agent, effective immediately."

It was a moment before the relief hit me. I had strongly suspected, even pretty much known intellectually by this point, but there was a difference between that and actually hearing the words.

I did my best not to let any of this register on face, but I wasn’t totally certain I succeeded. Still...

“Thank you,” I said with a thin smile.

Carver shot me a look of pure dislike. “You must be so pleased,” he said, with a slight grate in his voice. He opened his drawer and slowly, almost as if it were hurting him, took my badge and gun out, placing them on the desk in front of me.

It was almost impossible to recognise the man who had welcomed me to his team those months back, who told me that the group here was like a family and that I’d soon fit in.

I fit in right now, of course. Better than ever. This was just the kind of family I was used to.

Always a disappointment.

It hurt, but I was used to never letting that show.

"The reinstatement is retroactive, so you'll be paid for your... time away."

Polite fiction, how I have missed thee.

“While all your current cases have been reassigned, you’ll find enough work on your desk to keep you busy until you get a new case.”

Translation: I now had enough forms and other paperwork to keep me going until shortly after the sun burnt out. Or Carver found a way to get rid of me, one way or the other. Up or down.

“Thank you, sir. I can’t stress how much your support has meant to me in this troubled time.”

It wouldn’t hurt to remind him that, yes, I obviously did have friends higher up and that, no, it hopefully wasn’t worth pissing me off.

A flash in his eyes told me that the message had been received.

I made myself sick, sometimes, but I didn’t start this fight and I still had a job at the end of it.

“I’m always here for my team, Agent.” It wasn’t hard to tell that he just no longer considered me part of it. “Have a good day.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

 

My escort was nowhere in sight when I stepped into the corridor, confirming that I really was back in the club again. I had been wondering, but apparently the game playing only went so far. I headed for the office, somehow still hoping for the best, but trying to anticipate the worst.

For a few seconds, all I saw and heard was the quiet industry of the office. Everyone hard at work. A familiar sight, almost like home. And then Anderson looked up and his face froze.

"Emily," he said, less in greeting to me than in warning to everyone else.

The office went silent as everyone turned to face my direction. For a moment, it was uncannily like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but without the unearthly screech and rush of bodies.

I almost wished there had been. Then at least there would have been a reason for the blank hostility being aimed in my direction.

I wasn't welcome here, and no one seemed to have any bones about letting me know that.

Great.

Just great.

For a moment, it just hurt. These people were my *friends*, on my way to feeling more like family than my actual biologicals ever had. And now this.

Shunned without even a chance to defend myself.

Then, with an effort, I shuttered it all away.

I could handle this.

I was a Prentiss. If nothing else, my family was good at ignoring things it was more convenient not to notice.

They could only hurt you if you let them, if you cared about what they thought.

And I didn't. Not now.

I wouldn't let myself care.

"Ladies. Gentlemen," I nodded to all of them. If Carver had thought I was a political, chances were that information had migrated its way downwards.

I could play that part. To the hilt if necessary.

And you never knew. If I played my cards correctly, I might be able to work past this... current difficulty with cool professionalism.

And forget that I'd ever opened my heart to these people.


	5. When the storm breaks

It takes a moment for the sound to penetrate the other world in which I've buried myself. I run it through my head again. It was the doorbell.

That's... unexpected. People don't call on me. This had better be worth it.

The irritation gives me the energy to get to my feet.

Not that there's any worry underlying my feelings, nor the stifled conviction that whatever this is, it can't be good.

For the first time since I moved here, I briefly wish that I had looked around for an apartment with a video intercom, because I have *no* idea who this could be.

No ideas I'm willing to entertain, anyway.

It's just too much. This is my sanctuary, my place away from the world. Even the irritation and... whatever else is barely enough to sustain me.

I clear my mind. I can do this.

And annoyance is the only thing I'm feeling.

I support myself against the wall with one hand, and take the intercom with the other.

"Emily Prentiss?" I ask a little curtly.

And the answer shatters me.

"Emma Winthrop," her oh so familiar voice answers. She pauses momentarily, before continuing. "Can we talk?"

Like a bad echo of what happened last time.

 

* * * * * *

 

I stopped outside the door, one last pause before I entered the room.

My last chance to reconsider.

Did I really want to go into the room and face what was inside?

In the end, it simply wasn't a choice. I might not want to face her, but I needed to look Amanda in the eye one last time and ask her why.

Why had she framed me?

Why had she blackened my name with the rest of the team even before the accusations started?

Just... why?

I took a deep breath, releasing it slowly as I gathered my mental defences. I wasn't really ready -- I didn't think I ever would be, not really -- but I could do this.

I nodded to the unlucky agent on guard duty and reached for the handle. Time to get this show on the road.

I stepped through the door.

 

Even caged like this, even after everything, she still somehow managed to keep her wild beauty. Maybe a little ragged around the edges -- lank hair, the shadows of sleepless nights beneath her eyes -- but still with the same pull, the same power. Something flared within me, forcing me to acknowledge that I was still attracted to her.

I supposed I'd known that, at least on an intellectual level, but I'd half-thought... I'd assumed that recent events would have somehow diminished those feelings. I surely couldn't be attracted to someone I felt contempt for.

It was easier to believe that when she wasn't sitting there in front of me.

But this was normal, I supposed. Too much water under the bridge. Too much shared history. It would pass.

Time heals all wounds, after all. Or so they say.

Amanda looked up as I entered the small interrogation room. Something flashed briefly in the depths of her eyes -- surprise, I thought -- but she quickly covered it up with a sardonic smile.

"Well, look who's come to visit."

I didn't reply immediately, just inspecting a little while longer. Now that I knew what to look for, the signs were obvious.

How had I missed them for so long?

She shifted uncomfortably under my gaze, getting that look that meant she was just about to throw a verbal jab, to shout at me, anything to get a reaction.

She'd probably succeed too, I admitted ruefully to myself. She'd always known just how to twist the knife.

So I decided to preempt her instead.

"Why did you do it?"

She looked discombobulated for a moment, then gave a sharp, hard laugh.

"I'm surprised you haven't read the transcripts already, honey. Didn't they explain everything to your satisfaction?"

I hadn't, actually. Celia's favour-mongering had only gone so far. Not that I needed to her know that.

"You didn't really give them the kind of answers that I'm looking for." Which I strongly suspected to be true, as far as it went. "How could you do this to me, to us?"

Give me something, I begged her silently. Despite the lies, the betrayal, despite everything, I still wanted to believe...

In something. I just wasn't quite sure what.

Apparently my inner romantic had survived, even now.

Now it was her turn to look at me for a minute, with something, almost a surprised look in her eyes. Then she started laughing. The first one almost sounded like it had to be forced out of her throat, but the rest flowed loud and harsh.

Her laughter tore away at me, leaving me feeling smaller, lesser for it, like I had been judged and found wanting.

It really was like just another night at casa de Prentiss.

"Oh, that's cute," she said after she took a breath, wiping her eyes. "You really think that there was ever an 'us'."

I felt like all the air had been forced from lungs. Never been... I mean, sure, there had been tough times, sure, what she had done was unforgiveable, but...

I had hoped, I had wanted there to be an explanation, something I could understand, something I could hold onto.

But never?

She had this kind of twisted smile on her face. "Nothing personal, honey. It was never anything personal."

I staggered to my feet. I couldn't be in here any longer.

She continued from behind me, her words like blades, tearing at the shattered remnants of my heart. "You were just convenient. Someone to blame for anything that went wrong. And you were so wrapped up in me, it was almost pathetic. That just made it so much easier."

I reached the door, leaning against the frame as if it would give me strength.

"I will say this for you." Something prompted me to look back, as if some hint of salvation could be garnered from this mess. A mistake. She still had that strange twisted smile on her face. "You always were a good fuck."

I snapped my head back, away from her and exited the room as quickly as I could.

 

I managed to make it to the bathroom before my composure fell. Not tears, I wasn't going to give that bitch any more of those. But I didn't want to be seen out, to be seen by any of the rest of the people I worked with.

They'd only use it against me.

So I sat in a cubicle, and clenched my hands until it felt like I was going to draw blood from my palms.

This had been a disaster. And it had been of my own making.

The signs Amanda had shown were so obvious in hindsight. I should have been able to tell...

But I didn't. Or, more accurately, I hadn't wanted to.

I couldn't do this again. I couldn't let my view of people be compromised by... feelings again.

Amanda could still serve a useful purpose. I could use her as an object lesson, hold onto the congealed rage like a knife to pare away at my heart, to make sure this could never happen again.

Never again.

Not ever.

 

* * * * * *

 

For a moment, I don't know what I feel about Emma's return. All I can tell is that there's something there, something vast, boiling up from my depths.

And then it hits with the force of a hurriance. And I am *incandescent.*

"What the *hell* do you think you're doing here."

It's not a question, but she starts to answer anyway. I think.

"I-"

I don't really care.

"You left, and you didn't say that you were coming back. Well, it's too late now, Emma *Frost*." I throw her name at her as though it's an edged weapon.

I know how she feels about her privacy, and this time? I'm fully capable and fully intend to make anything I can into a weapon.

She left me, she hurt me and she broke me. And, right now, I'm out for blood.

"Oh." She sounds a little offput and almost disappointed. Not exactly the reaction I was looking for, or expecting. "How much do you know?"

"The salient facts. Everything that you didn't bother to *tell* me yourself." I laugh sharply. "You aren't nearly as good  
at hiding your tracks as you thought. I've known since long before you even left."

"What?"

A hit. A palpable hit, at her pride if nothing else.

I'll take what I can get.

"Did you really think that I couldn't find out? Or are you just surprised that I managed to hide it from you?"

"More the latter, if I'm to be completely honest. You have *layers*, Ms Prentiss." She sounds admiring, and this really isn't the way I want this conversation to go.

"You'll never find out. I don't want to have anything more to do with you."

"So you don't have a problem with... the m-word?" She sounds oddly hesitant.

There's a part of me that analyses the fact that she could find out for herself, but doesn't, but most of me just doesn't care.

I could lie here. Pretend to be prejudiced against mutants. Make up some plausible lie about how I thought that she was different, but now I see she's just like all the other *freaks*.

It would be easy. And, unless she dug, she'd probably never find out it wasn't true. and I could fairly certain that I'd never see her again.

It would be perfect.

Only one thing stops me, and it isn't Emma. It isn't her opinion of me. It isn't even my self respect.

It's JJ.

I can't do that again. Not even to Emma.

"Not even with the t-word," I spit. "I could lie and say it's because you were trustworthy, but it's just because you were predictable."

Heat enters her voice. "Not predictable *enough*, apparently."

I laugh bitterly. "That was more a case of me lying to myself than anything else. You may be able to know *what* people think, but I'm far better at knowing *how* they think."

"You think far too highly of yourself," she says through her teeth.

"Which is a crime *you've* never been guilty of, is it?"

I hear her take a deep breath. "I should leave."

"You should never have come back."

"You have my number. If you ever want to... do whatever, you can contact me."

"It's never going to happen." The laugh that follows grates my throat. "For all your telepathy, you're still so stuck inside your own mind. I *helped* you, I put you back together and you?" Some part of myself screams at me to stop, but the words burst out anyway. "You *broke* me, Emma." Not because you left me, not because you broke my heart, though neither of those things helped. No, you broke me by doing all that after managing to take away the only way I can cry. "You're toxic", and I make an inspired guess, "and I bet that I'm not the first person to tell you that."

The quick inhale I hear over the intercom tells me that I scored a hit.

"I'm sorry," she says in a small voice, and the apology, rather than the almost fight we got into earlier is what sends me over the edge.

"Just fuck off, Emma!" I slam the intercom handset into the holder, but it doesn't feel like enough. The next thing I know the handset earpiece is in ruins and I'm breathing heavily, still holding it by the handle.

Fuck.

As the anger drains from me, so does my energy, and I sink to my knees. In the aftermath, I feel something familiar, something that hasn't happened in too long, something that feels almost like salvation as my eyes blur and tears start streaming down my face.

The storm inside me breaks and I'm crying and, God help me, it feels *glorious* even as it empties me out.

At long last.

Release.

 

* * * * * *

 

As I enter the office I feel a brief impulse to burst into a jaunty whistle. I suppress it, of course, but I do give Reid and Morgan a quick almost-smile, to raised eyebrows.

It's twisted, it's wrong, but I feel *so* much better this morning it's unreal. My depression of the last few weeks has lifted as though it never was, and it almost feels like I'm walking on clouds.

It's just by comparison, I know, but I'm determined to enjoy the euphoria whilst it lasts. Maybe even to the start of the next case, if I'm lucky.

A couple of hours later and the usual jackals have gathered around the coffee area. Normally when the topic of conversation is likely to be me, I'd be reticient about approaching, but today? I'm feeling invulnerable, and I need my midmorning cup of coffee.

This, of course, does not go unnoticed.

"Did someone get lucky last night?" Morgan asks with a big grin on his face.

"A lady never tells," I reply smoothly and his smile becomes a smirk.

He's wrong, but, given I usually release after sex, he's closer than he might think.

JJ gives me a quick worried glance. I'm not certain exactly what she sees, but she seems to untense, a little.

I sense another talk in our near future. Ah well, I can probably fob her off with enough of the truth.

About an hour later, Hotch pops his head out of his office and gives me a searching glance. I nod slightly to him, and he holds my gaze for a few seconds before disappearing back behind his door.

I'm in the clear, for the moment, but he'll be keeping an eye on for a while, just in case.

I need to make sure to establish a new routine for emotional release.

Anger is right out, regardless of what happened last night. Not only do I refuse go be abusive to other people as a matter of routine (and, despite everything, I feel a little guilty about blowing up at Emma last night. But only a little), but it's just dangerous in this line of work. Too much temptation to let it... create incidents.

The old way worked well enough, assuming that last night's closure allows me to use it again, but maybe I can come up with a another method. Just in case.

But I can think of such things later. I have paperwork, glorious paperwork, to keep me company for now.

It's a measure of my mood that I'm not being completely sarcastic when I think that.

Today is going to be a good day.


	6. To hunt, perchance to find release

I have the text written and ready before the wheels hit the tarmac of the landing strip. The instant we get the all-clear, I thumb off the aeroplane safety mode, wait impatiently for my phone to find the network, and then hit send. There. Phase one complete. And if people would get their asses in gear, I could get off this plane and back to the office for phase two. There's a shower there with my name on it.

And then...

And then I'll take it from there. No pressure, just ritual and routine.

And release.

I just hope it works this time. I have a good feeling about it, but...

Please, just let it work.

That thought runs through my head over and over again, like a mantra; a prayer. While I'm lathering my hair with quick, efficient motions. While I'm chatting with Garcia at the coffee machine. While I'm rooting around in my desk drawer for one of the thousand or so spare hairbands that should be lurking there. While my fingers fly over the keyboard, filling out the relevant forms as quickly and efficiently as I can.

Let it work this time. Please let it-

 

"Earth to Emily. Come in Emily."

It takes a moment for JJ's words to register. Half a moment more for me to realise that wasn't her first attempt at getting my attention.

"Hi JJ. Sorry, I was miles away."

"I could see tell." She sounds dryly amused. "Anywhere nice?"

I grimace. "Case report. I want to get it finished before I leave here."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "That's... dedicated of you."

"More like I don't want to have to face the thing tomorrow. At least this way I can relax without it hanging over me." I quickly glance over at my screen. "Anyway, I'm actually just about done with it." I turn around so I can give her my full attention. "So, what can I do for you?"

"I just came to tell you that the rest of us are heading out to the pub shortly, if you want to join us." She gives me a sardonic smile. "Assuming you can tear yourself away from your paperwork, of course."

I actually consider delaying my hunt long enough to have a drink or two with the team, but then comes a surge of hunger, of *need* so powerful that it almost leaves me breathless. No. I can't put this off. I have to stick to my routine. I *have* to make it work again. I can't risk doing anything that might interfere with that.

"I'm afraid I can't tonight. I already have plans. Maybe next time?"

JJ looks disbelieving. "Oh? Anything exciting?"

"Catching up with an old friend." Technically true, if somewhat misleading. "Between their schedule and mine, making time to get together can be something of a challenge." Also true. Also misleading, since I'm not planning on meeting up with Celia in person.

"I see." She still looks a little dubious, but I think she believes that I'm not just making excuses. Which I'm actually not, for the first time in what feels like a long time. I just don't want to share my real plans with her.

Apparently deciding not to press further right now, JJ straightens and steps back. "Well, have fun tonight."

"You too."

And on that note, she smiles and takes her leave. I turn back to my just-about-done report.

Just a few more minutes, and then Hotch will be telling us to get out of here. I can wait that long.

Just a few more minutes.

It can't come a moment too soon.

 

I pick up the phone on the second ring. It helps that I've been hovering nearby for the past five minutes or so, waiting for the inevitable call. I suppose I could have just called her, but that isn't the way we do it. It isn't the way the routine goes. *She* always calls *me*.

"Hello, Celia."

"Hello yourself," she replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "So, getting back on the horse tonight, huh?"

"Trying to." I shrug, even though she can't see it. "It's good to hear from you."

"I'm not the only one who's capable of picking up the phone, you know." If her voice is a little tart, well, it's probably no more than I deserve.

"I know. I've been busy." And trying to avoid questions I don't want to answer. Like: 'how are you?' "I'll try to be better about keeping in touch."

"Hmm, well, see that you are. I assume we're on for coffee tomorrow?"

"We are. Usual time, usual place. Assuming neither of our schedules gets in the way."

"They'd better not," she all-but growls. "Although I don't think Eduardo would dare to call me for anything less than a major, all hands on deck emergency. Not after the reaming I gave him last time."

"That reminds me: what did happen with that? Assuming you can talk about it, of course."

"Oh, it turned out to be nothing in the end. One of the interns was spotted at a mutant pride rally. By the time the story made its way to my office, chinese whispers had turned her into a secret mutant terrorist who'd infiltrated the hallowed halls of Capitol Hill." In my mind's eye, I can picture the dismissive wave. "The resulting kerfuffle really was out of all proportion. She was just a kid with a cause; no threat at all. But you know politics."

"Yeah." My guts clench. I haven't told her who Emma really is yet. It's a bombshell I'm not looking forward to dropping. She's going to be so pissed I didn't tell her as soon as I could. Maybe tomorrow, at coffee. Maybe once she's been sufficiently amused by stories of the night's (successful; it *will* be successful) hunting. Maybe.

"Anyway, enough about that. Let's get back to the important stuff. What's tonight's battledress?"

"A little red dress. You haven't seen it before."

"Well send me a picture then! Come on, come on, the evening isn't getting any younger and neither are we."

I do so, and she expresses her approval. I'm not surprised. The dress was a present from Emma and, whatever her (many) faults, she certainly had an eye for clothes. I haven't worn it before. I'm still not sure I'm actually going to wear it tonight. But that's why I think that maybe I should. After all, it's just a dress.

I settle back on the bed, basking the sound of Celia's voice as she chatters about shoes and accessories. This is nice. It feels... normal. And for the first time since the plane touched down, my silent plea, my prayer, actually ceases its endless refrain. For the first time, I stop thinking it and just feel it.

Tonight will be a good night.

Tonight, I will hunt.

And everything will be better in the morning.

 

Just like always, the wall of music hits me as I enter the club. For a moment, all I want to do is just step outside again.

I really have become unacclimated to this, haven't I?

I make my way over to the bar and wait for Di's attention.

It's not that I don't want this -- I do. It's not even that I don't need this. 

But the need is a little less sharp than is my routine. And maybe that's why I'm feeling a little nervous, a little on edge. A little out of place.

Or maybe it's that it feels a little too much like the first time after *her*, and I don't need that riding me now.

Don't need to think about Mona, that familiar stab of guilt.

And, naturally, as soon as her name enters my mind, I can't help but remember the rest.

 

* * * * * *

 

"Come on," insisted Celia, taking me by the arm. "I refuse to let you become an old maid, sitting alone in your apartment every night."

It wasn't that I didn't agree with her, on principle. But a club? Really? Hadn't that been how this whole mess started in the first place?

Celia's eyes narrowed; an all-too-familiar sign of inner stubborness. "Do you honestly think I'm going to let you slink away now?" she asked, correctly interpreting my expression.

No, now that she mentioned it. No, I didn't. With only a slight sigh, I let her pull me inside to face the music.

And loud music it was too. Well, it wasn't like we were here for the quality of the conversation, or so Celia assured me.

We were here to get me laid.

Oh boy.

As my eyes adjusted, I confirmed that we were certainly in the right place. And, okay, maybe it had been a little long since I had last had sex. Apparently I wasn't completely dead to the right kind of attraction.

But I still felt nowhere near enough of a pull to actually act on it. Maybe this was a sight best appreciated from a slight distance, say at the bar, with a drink or two in me.

Celia pointed at her eyes and then at me, in an unmistakable sign that she was going to be keeping an eye on me. No doubt to make sure that I was having 'fun', however she decided to define that. She then disappeared off into the crowd, presumably to dance the night away. She might have no inclinations towards the fairer sex herself, but she was rarely opposed to a little light flirtation and never to a good dance partner.

I almost sighed before remembering my instructions. Right, to enjoying myself.

 

Some drinks later, and I found msyelf on the dance floor. I wasn't quite sure when I had decided to abandon my good friend the bar, but it had clearly been the right decision. 

Everyone else was enjoying letting go, why shouldn't I for once?

I had just finished casually dancing with a blonde, when I spotted someone, a brunette, hanging back a bit from the dance floor by herself. A bit closer, and I could see her looking maybe nervously, maybe a little enviously towards us.

That didn't much look like fun. And everyone was supposed to be having fun tonight.

"Hey," I said, swaying up to her with a smile. "Want a dance?" I asked, extending a hand.

She looked at it for a second as though it might bite her, then slowly, almost shyly, lifted her gaze back up at me.

She mouthed something I didn't catch, but it looked like "Really?"

I gave her my best and brightest smile. I might not quite feel it myself, but that was no reason to spoil the mood. "Sure."

She smiled back at me, and took my hand. "Thanks."

 

A few dances later, and she'd loosened up a little. Enough that she'd even brushed up against me in a way that reminded me that, yes I did have a libido. I wasn't too sure whether it was an accident, or on purpose, or a combination of the two, and I was starting to have problems caring.

Just because I didn't, couldn't, want a relationshtip, didn't mean I had to celibate, right? Celia and lots of other people had that kind of life, and I didn't judge that.

So why couldn't I follow their example? My brain was having problems coming up with objections.

My companion certainly didn't seem to have any, if I was reading her correctly, as she led us to a slightly quieter area of the club.

"Would you like to..." she murmured into my ear, before seeming to run out of courage.

"Sleep with you?" I asked. I was fairly certain that I'd read her correctly, but it was still gave me something of a tingle when she nodded in response, with something that looked like a blush on her face. "I'd love to."

"Your..." she stopped, cleared her throat, tried again. "Your place or mine?"

Just the thought of taking someone else to my apartment, my personal space, was enough to almost throw me out of the mood.

"I'd love to see yours," I said by way of an answer.

The decision made, she relaxed a little. "Meet you outside?"

I nodded and quickly found Celia, giving her the bare details and ignoring the thumbs up and beaming smile she gave me at the news.

It might be just sex, but it already felt so much better than the cold void I'd been feeling since her.

Maybe this would start to fill me up again.

 

"Thank you," my date said softly, smiling up at me in the lamplight.

I grinned down at her, sweaty but a little proud.

It had taken me some time to get my groove on, a little more trial and error than I was really proud to remember, but we'd finally gotten there.

It had been fun.

"It was... magical," she continued, almost melting into her bed.

Hang on a minute. Magical? This was just sex, just a one night stand, just a meaningless fling.

Right?

I looked a little closer and saw that she looked quite a bit younger than I'd remembered, through the darkness and the alcohol. Not illegally young, but...

I had a sudden sick feeling in my stomach.

"This wasn't your first time, was it?"

Surely not. I mean, she'd seemed a little shy, but lots of people get that way. It didn't necessarily mean...

She looked suddenly nervous. "I didn't do anything wrong, did I?"

Please, dear god, no.

"No," I said through suddenly stiff lips. "Not at all."

Memories of my own first time flooded into my mind.

I couldn't handle this. Not now.

Someone's first time should be special, not like mine. Not for just a one night stand.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I really have to go." Without giving her the chance to reply, I got up and quickly started pulling on my clothes. On one level I was aware that I was handling this really badly. The rest... The rest of me just had to get out of here. I had to get away. I smiled at her, but it felt like more of a rictus. "Work in the morning."

"Oh," she said, quietly. I couldn't look at her, couldn't afford to see her expression, but I could hear the crushed tone in her voice. I was already heading for the bedroom door, a past mistress of getting my clothes on on a rush. "Can we... Can we swap numbers?"

No, I thought. No. But all I said was, "I'll see you around."

And then I left.

I stopped a little outside her place, out of energy -- out of strength -- found a quiet place, and burst into tears. Not just about the girl, not just about Amanda, not just about my previous posting, but all or it. It all came out in a wave, washing over me, sweeping away any and all bulwarks that may have stood in its way.

And, in the aftermath, all that was left was numbness.

 

The next morning brought something with it something entirely unexpected: a certain lightness of being, a certain clarity of mind that I hadn't felt since well before things with Amanda had gone bad. Huh.

Amanda.

I could even think *her* name without the weight of it dragging me back down into the depths.

It was as if the tidal wave of emotion last night had scoured me clean. I felt *better*. Maybe not all the way recovered, but definitely lighter of heart. Even, cautiously, with the stirrings of an emotion that maybe felt like... hope?

Perhaps last night had done me some good after all. Even if, as the sudden hot rush of guilt and shame was quick to remind me, someone else had paid the price of my 'miracle'.

The lesson didn't escape me.

Lessons, really.

I was much more careful the next time.

(Of course there was a next time. Because relief is only ever temporary. Stress is like dirt. It only ever accumulates unless you do something to wash it away. Some people have their daily rituals. Some people prefer to remain untouched until they need a deluge.)

(I, of course, favour the latter. I am nothing if not my mother's daughter.)

(And I hate myself a little more every time I think that.)

On my second trip to the club, I had a much better idea of what I was looking for. And what I wanted to avoid. Profiles, expected questions and expected responses. It might erase the slightest trace of romance from the procedure, but, then, that was almost a benefit. I made damn sure to keep watch for the danger signs, the telltale warnings of innocence not to be tarnished by the likes of me. I wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

And I didn't.

Chloe was her name. She was small and dark and her eyes glinted wickedly when she asked me to dance. It wasn't easy to hear her over the music, but I heard enough to know that this was by no means her first visit here. We had a good time that night. The subject of exchanging numbers never came up.

I was smiling when I left her apartment, still floating in an endorphin bubble. It almost a physical shock when the tears started, when I realised that I was never, could never see her the same way again. The resulting crying jag left me practically doubled over, unable to stop the emotional pain flooding through me. When it abated, I somehow managed to stumble home, mental and physical exhaustion leaving me too wrecked to do anything more than pull off my clothes and fall into the bed.

And in the morning, I felt... better.

It wasn't until the third time that I started thinking of it as a hunt.

Sarah. Redhaired and fierce, with a rather quirky sense of humour. Impressively flexible.

Afterwards, I actually made it all the way home before the storm broke.

The fourth time was when I actually made a conscious effort to follow the pattern I'd started to establish.

She was a... brunette? Or maybe another redhead. Her name was... it began with a T. Or maybe a P. Honestly, from this point, it all started to become a bit of a blur. Blonde, redhead, brunette, tall, short, curvy, willowy... As long as they were interested, fun, attractive, and (most importantly, and something I always mnade damn sure of) knew exactly what they were getting into, then it was all good.

And it worked.

I'd found a balance, a way to manage the considerable stresses of my job and protect my heart at the same time.

I ran into Mona again. She was waiting, watching for another chance. She didn't understand, and neither apologies nor explanations sufficed. A full blooded, starry eyed crush that I couldn't bring myself to destroy.

It was all my own fault, after all.

So I learned to keep an eye out myself, dodge, evade. And slowly it became easier, and I began to think that Mona's feelings had gone the way of all such things at her age.

And, for years, the system had worked. Until Emma had brought the whole thing crashing down around my ears.

But I could fix it. I could build it up again, make it work again. Make *me* work again.

And then everything could go back to normal.

 

* * * * * *

 

"Fancy seeing you here," comes a cool voice from behind me.

It can't be- I turn around, a little faster than I should, but...

The cognitive dissonance almost makes the room sway for a minute before everything snaps sharply back into focus.

It's her.

It's Emma. Standing there, behind and a little to one side of me, holding a drink in one hand and as blonde and perfect as ever.

The old Prentiss reactions snap into play whilst I am still trying to get to grips with this impossibility.

"It's so nice to see you again," I say with a plastic smile on my face.

How...?

The obvious answer splashes me in the face like ice cold water.

She's a telepath. 

She went into my mind without my permission.

She violated me.

My muscles tense before I've really decided what I'm going to do, what I can do.

Emma rolls her eyes. "Please," she says. Before I say anything, express my outrage that she's *still* doing it. "Like I need to be able to read minds to know what you're thinking."

What?

"What?"

She leans in, whispers against my ear, so I can hear her clearly. "It's what everyone's first thought is. That I'm using my powers against them. And it's *lazy*. I really thought better of you, Emily." She brings her head back, so she can look me thoughtfully in the face.

She's right. It *is* lazy thinking. If I didn't know... But I do, and it's a strange attractor that automatically makes her telepathy my first recourse.

I should trust her more.

I *did* trust her more, before...

But how fragile a thing was my trust, that it could not survive her leaving? She betrayed me, but not in *that* way.

"Sorry," I say.

Something in her face relaxes, and she takes a sip from her drink. "Think nothing of it," she says, and smirks. "It happens to the best of us."

Which, of course, doesn't answer how she knew to come here. If it wasn't telepathy, as she is strongly intimating...

Celia. Of course. Though how she managed to defuse Celia's protective temper is almost as big a mystery.

"I didn't realise you two were such good friends," I say.

She tilts her glass at me in salute. "She made me promise not to give up on you if you ever lost your temper. I asked her to help me keep my word."

Celia did what? But, thinking about it... I can see it. And, shame rising up in me, I realise I had fulfilled *that* prophecy.

I don't want to see Emma, still, but that didn't excuse the way I had treated her. Even if she had been indirectly responsible for a lot of it. I brace myself for what I'm about to say, what I have to say.

"I'm sorry that I lost my temper at you."

Emma inclines her head the tiniest amount. "I'm not sure that I didn't deserve it, da..." she closes her mouth before she can complete the endearment.

I tense anyway.

I can't do this again.

I've learned my lesson. I don't do relationships. I don't *want* to do relationships. Especially not with *her*.

Though Emma still makes it as hard to think in my usual straight, clean, lines as she ever did.

"What do you want?" I say, bluntly.

There's a brief look in her eyes, a hurt that she immediately covers up.

But she had to know that this wasn't going to be simple. 

And it's not like this is any easier on me.

It's far too soon.

"Shall we take this somewhere quieter?" Quite probably also more private, though it's hard to imagine anywhere more private than a crowded club with blaring music that isn't also...

A little too intimate for my comfort.

"Where do you suggest?" I ask.

Apparently my skeptical look translates well enough that she shrugs. "As you wish. I really just want to apologise for leaving. Especially like that. But I couldn't carry on a... relationship without ending the last one properly. You, both of you, deserved better than that." She looks deep into my eyes. "You do understand, don't you?"

I don't. I can't afford to think of mitogating factors when I'm so close to her, like this.

I need to rebuild myself first before I can even attempt something like forgiveness.

It's really not her, though, just me. Broken little me. So I just nod in response.

Emma doesn't seem precisely satisfied, but accepts my offering anyway. She casts her eyes around the club, indicating that the subject is closed. (At least for the time being.) "Had any luck so far?" she asks in a tone of mild interest.

"You caught me before I could really start." I smile, my expression feeling just a little wry, just a little dark as it settles over my face. "Celia really did open up, didn't she?"

I'm going to have to have words with her tomorrow, I see.

Emma makes a rueful face. "I think she's hoping that I'll save you or something."

I give a sharp laugh. "Really?"

"In between the not so veiled threats about what she'll do if I hurt you again. She's quite a romantic, isn't she?"

"When it comes to me," I say a little bitterly. I'm fairly certain that Celia has, for whatever reason, invested her hopes of an oh-so-traditional happy ending in me. And I haven't been that person since Amanda. "But I don't need saving."

"I would never have gotten involved with you if I thought otherwise. I'm not a white... knight," Emma smiles as if she's making a private joke. I resist the urge to ask about it. "But you're fine now?" Her gaze has a hint of concern about it. Just enough to be friendly, not more. If I wasn't feeling so worn by this interaction, I might even applaud her.

"Yes," I say shortly, meaning: 'I will be.'

"It's just that you said I broke you," she says. And her words are spoken oh so gently. But she's pushing, still pushing.

I feel my face freeze. This is not something I want to talk about. Not right now. Not at all.

"If I had to guess, you were talking about your sex/stress relief cycle. And how it wasn't working for you."

I find my voice. "This has a point?" I say roughly.

This is none of her business. None.

"Just that... I owe you. You helped me." Her expression becomes neutral. "And I can help you. I can..." She hesitates for the barest moment, as if searching for words, or maybe just gauging my likely response. "Fix what I broke," she continues.

Oh.

Oh god.

Is she offering to..?

"Really?" I ask, my voice containing far more hope than I'd like, than is safe.

"Really. And, honestly," she adds, affecting a somewhat superior tone, "I can probably do a better job than you did." She smirks a little at my expression. "No offense."

This... wasn't where I saw the conversation going.

And yet...

And yet...

I can't think, I need time. Information. I can't seem to perform an analysis.

She's thrown me into confusion.

She seems to do that a not insubstantial amount of the time.

"Why?" I ask. "What do you get out of this?" Because, whatever else, it's clear that she won't get me.

She looks down into the remnants of her drink, before draining it dry and looking back at me, for a moment shedding her usual layers of defence. "Maybe I get to forgive myself." And then the moment's gone, and she just looks amused again. "And maybe I just think that we're each allowed to make our own bad decisions."

I can't disagree that to the outside that's my lifestyle looks like. But it's who I am, and it works for me.

And I won't change now, no matter how alluring the alternative in front of me is. Because I know where that leads.

"I doubt this is what Celia had in mind when she told you where I am."

Understatement of the century. I wonder if I should compile a list of current construction sites for when Celia finds out this. It would be nice to at least have a head start on where to look for the body.

Emma shrugs unconcernedly. "On occasion, Celia needs to manage her expectations." She pauses for a second. "So?"

Emma is offering to go into my mind to fix me.

She is offering to use telepathy on me.

She is asking, not doing. And she could. I would never know.

And the promise of being whole again, of being okay, of not having to worry if I'm going to just break again...

It may be a little sick, it may not be anything anyone else would suggest...

But, like Emma said, it's my bad decision to make.

And I just can't resist. Despite feeling almost terrified at the thought of someone, anyone, going through my thoughts.

"Yes," I say through stiff lips.

Emma's eyes lose something of their lustre, but she doesn't look at all surprised as she bends in close. "Could you repeat that?"

"Yes." The word comes easier the second time. "I'd like you to fix me."

"That's what I thought. But better safe than sorry. Shall we meet up in, say, a week's time?"

I blink.

"Why not do this tonight?"

I just want this over with. Please.

Her smile is a little sardonic. "To give you time to think this over. I wouldn't want you getting buyer's remorse, now would I?"

Don't you trust me? "Do you honestly think I'll change my mind?"

Emma's smile acquires a tinge of sadness. "Not really, no." She purses her lips. "So, my apartment, in a week's time. Shall we say seven pm?"

"Unless a case interferes."

"Of course. You have my number, in case you have to... reschedule." She nods at me, murmurs "See you anon," turns, and disappears into the crowd.

If it wasn't for the way my heart is racing, the way the room is swaying dizzily around me, I could almost believe that she was never here at all.

But she was. And she's going to...

I face the bar and raise a hand attract Di's attention. After that conversation, I really need a drink.

So. Emma is going to fix me.

She's going to make me whole again.

Just one more week, and I'll be better. 

Just one more week, and I'll be functional.

Just one more week, and I won't be so terrified at the thought of letting someone, anyone, into my head.

Won't I?


	7. Reflections and broken image

"Emily?"

I'm so wrapped up in my own thoughts that until I hear my name I don't even register that someone has approached and is speaking to me. Let alone that it's someone I know.

Let alone that it's:

"Mona," I say, affixing a smile to my face.

Because really, after having run out on her *again* a few weeks ago, it's the least I can do.

"Hey. How are you doing this evening?" she inquires, before quickly adding, a little nervously, "If you don't mind me asking."

"Fine," I say, more because I feel like I should be fine than because I am. But I'm closer to actually fine than I've been for a while, temporary respites aside. Aren't I?

"Good. Good. It's just that last time I saw you..." I wince a little at that, but she doesn't seem to notice, "And the rumours..."

Huh? Rumours?

But there's something I need to say before I can start asking questions.

"Firstly, I'm really sorry about just running out on you without saying anything."

I steel myself for her response, whatever it may be. I think I'm ready for anything, but I find myself shocked when, smiling wryly, she waves her hand in a casually dismissive gesture.

"No big," she says airily. "I mean, leaving afterwards is kind of your thing."

Quickly recovering from my temporary discombobulation (after all, 'casual' is certainly better than 'pissed off' or, worse, 'distraught') I smile somewhat ruefully back at her.

"Still, sorry. I usually at least have the courtesy to say goodbye afterwards. And, secondly, rumours?"

She glances downwards. "Just the word going around. You've been off your regular patterns for months now." She pauses for a moment, before adding in a rush, "I'd hadn't really believed them until that night. But you seemed really off your game." It's hard to tell in the light, but it looks like she blushes, "Not that I'd know what your game is like, usually, but..." She hides her head in her hands. "I'm making a complete mess of this, aren't I?"

I have to laugh. "I'm not... sure?" I venture, tentatively. "Though not knowing what 'this' is probably isn't a good sign."

She peeks briefly up from her hands, before hiding her face again. "Not helping!" she says. But she seems to be laughing, which is a good sign.

"So, what did you want to talk about?"

"Just that..." She inhales deeply, then drops her hands and lifts her head up to look me directly in the eyes. "I'm really sorry about practically stalking you back then. It really wasn't my finest hour. You gave me a really nice first time, and it was really uncool to obsess over you like that."

It's a version of events that I barely recognise, but it isn't like I don't have my own regrets.

"I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have been your first time, not like that."

"Bah," she waves a hand. "Trust me, you gave me a much better time than my next hookup. And that whole night..." she has a slight smile on her face as her gaze turns soft and distant. "You made me feel special. I mean, I wasn't expecting anything more than a quick screw, but..." She blushes. "I'm not doing a good job of selling that I'm over the crush, am I?"

I really don't know what to make of this. It's so different from what I remember that I just don't have time to process it. Instead, I fall back on that old stand-by for awkward situations: humour.

"Not really, no." I reply with a smile.

She gives me a grin that's almost wicked. "If it helps, that night a few weeks ago did help to convince me that some things are definitely best left to the hazy recollections of nostalgia."

I wince.

"Ouch. Was I really that bad?"

She nods, the humour in her eyes softening the edge of words that could otherwise have cut me to the quick. "Barely could find the relevant parts. My view of Emily, sex goddess, definitely took a hit."

Ouch again. But, much as my ego would like to believe her assessment is overly harsh, the few sodden memories I have of that night don't exactly contradict her. If anything, she may be understating the case.

Note to self. Alcohol may be good for a little social lubrication, but in high enough quantities it can severely impair performance.

"In my defense, I was really, really drunk."

And let's *not* do that again anytime ever. It never ends well.

"Or maybe you're just getting old," she says impishly. "Seriously, though, you don't mind that I took you home? I don't want to think that I took advantage of you."

"If you don't think I took advantage of you," I say with a smile that I don't quite feel. Because I still feel like I did. The first time even if not the second.

She relaxes, her relief showing on her face. "Good. I did have to wonder... You've been so good about avoiding me." A trace of guilty embarrassment crosses her face again. "Not that I really blame you, but..."

"Hey," I say. "That's in the past. And trust me, we've all done things when we were younger that we'd prefer to forget."

"Really?" For a moment, she looks awfully young.

"Really," I affirm. "And thanks for the apology, even if it really wasn't necessary."

"No problem." She beams at me, her cheeks dimpling as she reaches out to touch my arm lightly. "Later?"

"Later," I say, rather than goodbye, rather than thinking 'Not if I see you first.'

Tension I had forgotten even existed loosens from around my chest and it feels...

It feels good.

 

I'm still chewing over the meeting with Mona the next day when JJ swings by my desk.

"Do you want to catch lunch outside today? It's too nice a day not to."

I may not be the biggest fan of the outdoors, but it might be nice to get away from the office for a while. Plus I'd really talk about things with JJ, maybe clear my head. Not about Emma, of course, that's entirely too complex. But Mona...

"Sure. Grab something from the canteen and meet you down there in ten?"

"It's a date, Prentiss."

 

It takes a little while for JJ to stop laughing after I tell her about Mona and the meeting last night.

"Emily, despoiler of the innocent," she gasps.

"I wouldn't go that far," I say a little grumpily.

"Because, lord knows, girls don't like getting it on."

I throw an empty wrapper at her head. It bounces off her temple, but doesn't deter her giggles.

"After all, it's not like you might have formed any other impression after being friends with someone like Celia, from what you've told me about her."

"I'm almost regretting having told you."

She sobers up. "Seriously, though, I don't see the problem. So she actually remembers having a good first time. Doesn't that just mean you can stop beating yourself up about it?"

When she puts it like that... "Maybe." But, while not exactly fundamental to my view of myself, it's been *there* for so long. Emily wronged Mona. A known fact. The space where it used to sit feels kind of... empty. Like the gap from a missing tooth that you just can't stop poking with your tongue. "Probably," I allow. "It's just such a different view to the one I had." And I think it's going to take a little while for the new truth to settle into place.

"Call yourself a profiler," JJ scoffs. "It's not like we don't encounter those kind of divergences every day."

"It's different when it's personal." And it's one of the reasons I don't *like* things getting personal.

But apparently even trying to keep things from getting personal can turn personal. Typical.

"It always is," JJ says, then snorts.

I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to nearly collapse into giggles again, but instead she seems to sober.

"You know, I was talking about us to..." she waves a hand in the air, "Someone you don't know. You know what they said?"

I look at her cautiously. We had carefully avoided talking about anything regarding 'us', or what could have become us, since JJ had told me she was working on forgiveness. But she didn't seem angry, just thoughtful and still a little amused.

"No."

"They asked me what the problem was. Way back when, all I'd wanted was to apologise for freaking you out and tell you that we could still be friends, and I'd gotten just that." She paused for a moment. "They weren't being entirely serious, but they also were, you know?"

"It wasn't anything to do with you." Just my own fuckedupness.

She looks at me skeptically. "Are you saying that your reaction was completely proportional and rational?"

"No."

"And that it was driven by the fact that you weren't ready to even think about a relationship, especially with a co-worker?"

"You know that's true." I'm feeling a little trapped by this line of argument, but I can't find any holes to pick in it.

"Then I maintain that I freaked you out by making a pass at you, and accidentally made things worse when I tried to apologise."

"It didn't happen that way!" It was my stupid fault, not hers.

She smiles placidly. "It's a consistent and complete account. If there's anything I've learned as a media liason, you can make any number of valid stories from the facts. And this is the one I choose."

"Why?" She can't do this. All I have left from that shambles is that it's *my* fault. If I can have nothing else, I can at least own *that*.

She shrugs. "I like you, Emily. You're my friend. And this is the story that makes me happiest with my life. I just don't see the point in trying to obsess over the minutiae about who might or might not be at fault."

She doesn't need to add 'unlike you'. I'm well aware of my faults.

"So," she continues. "I'm really sorry that I freaked you out." She smiles blindingly. "Can you forgive me?"

I start laughing. Long, loud and I just can't seem to stop. I collapse back against the grass, and look up at the blue sky.

Is there any point on holding onto my guilt if she absolves me? Even if it's by denying that I was at fault at all?

Telling myself 'no' is simultaneously the hardest and the easiest thing I can remember doing.

Another knot gone from within me. Another abscess that was accumulating poison purged.

"Always," I tell her when I can finally speak, and she grins back at me.

"Good." She pauses a moment, biting her lip, before continuing more quietly. "Would you do me a favour?"

I feel instantly suspicious. "What?"

"Would you consider doing the same for Amanda?"

"What!" How could she ask me, after what Amanda did to me, after how she hurt me?

"It's your story," she rushes out, "It's just that... in addition to not having forgiven Amanda, you don't seem to have forgiven yourself."

I give her a hard look. "Really."

She shrugs, a little helplessly. "When we spoke of her, whenever we spoke of her, you gave me the distinct impression that you hated yourself almost as much as her."

It's not like that. It's not like that at all. It's just... self despite is a handy knife to wield against your heart, to make sure that you don't make the same mistakes again.

"It's your story," she repeats. "And only you can decide which version makes you happiest."


	8. Homecoming

I'm standing in front of the entrance to Emma's place.

It's decision time.

I try to tell myself that I've already made my choice, that I'm going to go through with it without regrets, without looking back.

But it's so hard not to second guess myself. Again.

And it would be easier if I didn't keep drawing parallels to Amanda, unfair though though it might be.

Case in point -- here on the threshold, awkwardly perched between one world and the next, between the person who I was and the person I'm going to be -- I can't help flashing back to the night when I really saw her.

 

* * * * * *

 

I didn't want to be here.

Well, that wasn't strictly true, but I'd always found it much easier to compartmentalise the absolutes. Just my luck that life was mostly shades of grey. More accurately, I wasn't *sure* whether or not I wanted to be here. I kept going back and forth about it.

On the one hand, the view was pretty spectacular: the place was wall to wall women, all dressed to impress, many of them busy strutting their stuff on the dance floor. The music was half decent, the drinks weren't too horrendously overpriced. There was even a chance I might end up going home with someone tonight, if I made an effort. That *was* supposedly the reason I was here, after all.

On the other hand, this wasn't exactly my scene. Not that I was precisely a stranger to one-night stands or casual flings. But it wasn't something I sought out nowadays. And the whole idea of going to a club specifically in search of anonymous sex among tens, maybe hundreds of people all doing the same... It kind of felt like the factory farming approach to dating. And there was a part of me, despite my upbringing, despite everything, that wanted something more. Even if years of new schools, new faces meant that I still had problems letting my barriers down, letting people in, somehow I still hoped for my very own happy ever after.

I still had problems admitting even to myself that I might be a closet romantic.

On the gripping hand, if I gave this whole clubbing thing a proper go, maybe I could finally convince Celia to stop bugging me about my love life. I'd gotten more than a little tired of her telling me I should be 'putting myself out there'. I did comment that she seems to be the world's foremost expert on putting out, but she just laughed and thanked me for the compliment.

Typical Celia.

There was a reason she was my best friend.

Okay, enough dithering. If I was going to do this thing, I was going to do it properly. Time to stop watching, and start doing. Knocking back the rest of my drink, I set my glass down on the bar and strode determinedly out onto the dance floor.

I could do this.

I could.

I *would*.

 

* * * * * *

 

And I will do this now.

I press the buzzer.

"I did wonder how long you were planning on staying out there," comes an amused voice from the panel.

"Have you considered allowing Jesus into your life?" I deadpan.

"If you're going to start up *that* kind of talk," she sniffs, "I'll just have to leave you outside."

I find myself laughing. "I've missed this," I admit softly.

"Really?" I don't need to see her to catch the note of almost reluctant hope in her voice, twisting something inside of me.

"So are you going to let me up or not?" Because we are not going to have any kind of conversation like this.

"If I must," she drawls lazily and the buzzer sounds.

When I get upstairs, the door is open and she's leaning against it.

"Still refusing to take the elevator?" she asks.

I shrug. "You know me. And shouldn't it be 'lift'?" I ask, tweaking her gently.

She ignores me , unfolding from the door and disappearing lithely inside her apartment, leaving the door ajar for me to follow her inside.

'Welcome to my lair, said the spider to the fly,' I can't help thinking. Just like always.

When I get to the living room, she's already sprawled on her sofa, a glass of wine on a table by her head. She's such a picture of indolence that she looks like she's just about to fall asleep. It would be easy to miss how tense she is under all that affectation. Easy to miss the hint of fear in her lazily lidded eyes. Easy to miss how close she must be, if not to breaking down, at least to crying.

If I didn't know her so well.

I can't even imagine how hard this must be. To offer to go inside someone's head -- someone you at least care for -- and offer to remove, among other things, the remnants of their feelings for you. I admire her almost more than I can say.

She's the only person I know who would just let me be me. For better or for worse.

She's the only person I can trust like this.

She's the only reason I'm even here.

I drop myself into one of the seats opposite her. I look for words to explain myself, to tell her why I'm here.

They don't come. I'm not good at unlocking myself, even to her.

So I settle for simply saying, "Well, I'm here."

Emma props herself up on one arm, takes the glass from the table beside her, and just barely wets her lips with the liquid. I can almost see her sorting through possible responses. Flirtation. Small talk...

Her gaze sharpens. Cutting to the chase, I guess.

"So, I take you've made your decision." It's not a question. Her tone leaves no doubt as to what she thinks that decision will be.

I take a breath.

Have I?

It feels like I'm approaching a precipice, like this is the last moment I have to change course before careering off the edge.

The last moment before I'm falling once more.

And, again, Amanda is still not far from my thoughts.

 

* * * * * *

 

"Well, fancy meeting you here."

That *voice*. A languid southern drawl, low and sultry. Darker than chocolate and sweeter than sin, it was ripe and full with promise. I wanted to swim in that voice, to wrap myself in it. It was... It was...

It was familiar.

Recognition hit me like a slap across the face. No. Oh no. Why now? Why *here*? Here was supposed to be safe. But this was no time to panic. That would come later: now was the time for damage control.

"I could say the same," I said lightly, smiling politely up at the woman who'd spoken. "Hello, Agent Westfield." I should have left it there, but some imp of the perverse made me add: "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Leaning casually against a pillar, she looked at me for a moment, then simply threw back her head and laughed. "Emily, honey," she said, once her mirth had subsided to a mere chuckle. "First of all, I never claimed to be *nice*." The way she emphasised the word evoked thoughts that were anything but. "And second, well. I think *I'm* here for exactly the same reason that *you* are." She looked me directly in the eyes, her expression challenging, just daring me to deny her words.

I gave it my best shot.

"You know how it is." I shrugged. "Friends drag you to the darndest places."

She grinned. "Nice try, but you came here alone."

Damn!

"I'm meeting people here."

For a moment or two, I thought it might actually work, but then a slow, sly smile spread across her face.

"That you are. But not anyone you knew before."

Had she been watching me all this time? That was a little... unnerving. Not to mention deeply irritating. I was supposed to notice that sort of thing. I was an FBI agent, for goodness' sake! Okay, so I was fairly new to the field and she'd been doing the job for a while, but that wasn't the point.

I was feeling defensive and uncomfortable, which left only one reasonable course of action: attack.

"Agent Westfield, have you been stalking me?"

That earned me an admonishing finger wag. "I thought I told you to call me Amanda, *Agent Prentiss*."

That had pretty much been the first thing she'd said to me after my boss had asked her to look after the new girl. The second being: 'And don't worry, I don't bite. Well, not unless I *really* like you.' That had been a little unexpected.

I rolled my eyes at her. "Okay, then. *Amanda*. Have you been stalking me?"

"Maybe a little." She shrugged unrepentantly, the motion loose and easy. "I saw you come in. Took me a moment or two to realise exactly why you looked familiar, but then I was intrigued." She leaned in towards me, bringing her mouth close to my ear so she could murmur: "Is this your first time?"

My brain froze up, letting my mouth respond on autopilot. "My second, actually. At least in this place."

"Well, that explains why I haven't run into you here before."

"You're a regular?"

"You could say that."

"So, that's a yes."

I wasn't sure what to make of that. Did I really want to hunt on the same patch as one of my new colleagues? Would it get awkward? On the other hand, this town wasn't exactly bursting with other venues and I absolutely refused to consider online dating. (Celia had threatened to create a profile for me if I didn't get my ass in gear. That was the main reason I gave into her nagging at long last.)

While I gathered my thoughts, Amanda... scrutinised me. There really was no other word for it. She ran her eyes over me from top to toe, letting out a slow whistle of appreciation.

"You sure do scrub up nicely."

"Uh, thanks." I had to resist the urge to pull the hem of my dress down, or to cross my arms in front of my chest. It's not that she was ogling me creepily, but she was rather... enthusiastic. I felt naked under her gaze. To cover my discomfort, I returned the favour with an appraisal of my own.

"So do you," I murmured.

"Why, thank you!" Gracefully pushing off from the pillar, she sashayed towards me, only stopping when we were no more than inches apart. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Hmmm..."

I quashed the urge to retreat. "What?"

"Guess what I'm thinking." Her voice was low and wicked.

I quirked an eyebrow. "I really have no idea." Was she going to suggest that we hook up? That was such a bad idea it wasn't even funny. And yet...

"Why don't I play native guide? I could show you around, introduce you to a few people. Help you get the lay of the land."

I looked around the club, taking the opportunity to push down the sudden surge of... what? Not disappointment, no, but definitely some sort of reaction. Damn that voice of hers!

"This place really doesn't look big enough that I'd need a guide," I said lightly.

Amanda smacked me lightly on the arm. "You'd be surprised, Missy Second-Timer. But I meant the city as well. I could show you what it has to offer. After all, some things are just more fun when you do them together, honey." She winked. "Wouldn't you agree?"

 

* * * * * *

 

This is *my* story, and I choose to remember it like *this*.

A girl meeting a girl. Nothing more. No pressure. Just... a mutual attraction.

A future full of potential.

It feels like sunshine blooming within my chest.

"I have," you tell Emma, pause, force more words out. "It's not what you think." And once I start, more words slip out, almost easily. "But, if you're willing to give it, I'm going to need your help."

I almost can't imagine asking for help.

But here I am.

And who knows where events could go from here? If I just let the shadows of past bad decisions, both my own and those of other people, stop hanging over me, constricting me?

What would make *me* happy? If I just had the courage to take a step forward, leap off the ledge, try something new, something dangerous.

Emma tilts her head, consideringly, before putting down the glass and sitting up.

"Anything," she says, simply, looking like she isn't quite allowing herself to hope yet. "Anything I can do to help."

"I don't want to do this anymore," I say out loud for the first time. "Sleeping around. One night stands."

Shutting myself off.

The never ending cyrcle of fucking the stress out of me.

And being just so, so afraid to even touch.

She takes a long, slow, deep breath before replying. "What do you want me to do?"

She's so contained, so unextravagant. It's almost like talking to a stranger.

But I think it's what I need right now, and I mentally thank her for her intuitiveness.

Any further intimacy, one 'darling' just at the moment, and I might break.

I'm exposing myself more than I thought I ever could, even to someone I... feel strongly for, and it's *terrifying*.

But also necessary.

"Right now?" I give her a half smile. "I need a friend." It's not what she wants to hear, I know. I just hope that it's better than nothing. "It's going to be difficult, the next few months." I can feel my smile becoming shaky, as I remember the last month. And it has the potential to get worse; even more so than when I was at my lowest ebb. "I'm going to need someone to hold me together if I crack."

If I permitted myself, if I *could* permit myself to cry outside of certain select situations, then my vision might be misting right about now.

But I don't, and it doesn't.

My voice is a little raw, anyway, when I ask, "Would you be that person for me?" 

Can you be that person? 

Because there's no one else I can even think of letting that close. Not even my other friends.

She looks at me solemnly. "Of course," she says, softly, the words barely louder than a whisper. She gets to her feet and approaches me cautiously, almost like I'm a wild animal.

"Of course," she repeats, more firmly, holding me tightly in an almost (but not quite) platonic way.

"And if I need to cry...?" I ask, my voice breaking a little.

Can you use telepathy to help me? I don't ask out loud, but I ask all the same.

"Of course," she says.

And I don't know if she's already using her powers on me, or if I'm already beginning to heal, just a little, but my eyes start to well up with moisture, tears spilling down my cheeks like rain after a long, long drought.

This is no bursting damn, no breaking storm, no tidal wave. It's just a gentle fall of rain.

And it feels so right.

 

Some time later, when I'm all cried out, Emma leaves me to tidy myself up a little and blow my nose. I hear her clattering around in the kitchen, but I don't really register what she's doing until she returns.

"Hot chocolate?" I ask doubtfully, peering into the steaming mug she hamds me. "Really?"

"I'm fairly certain I've mentioned that I was a teacher," she says placidly. "And, well, if you *will* burst into tears on my couch, I'm not sure I can be blamed if certain instincts surface."

I glower at her, but any tension in the room has been broken. It's a little hard to take myself seriously after being compared to a teenager overwrought over the latest drama.

"*Will be* a teacher, actually," she amends after a moment.

I aim a raised eyebrow in her direction. "Oh?"

She shrugs eloquently. "You surely didn't expect me to spend the rest of my life lounging around here all day, did you?"

"Do you have a position yet?"

"Not quite yet, but I have my eye on a few schools. I haven't yet decided what I'm going to teach." She smirks. "I'm *very* talented."

Oh, god.

And, as if on cue, she licks chocolate foam from her top lip almost sensuously.

I suddenly find my own drink very interesting.

"Actually," I murmur once I've gotten my libido under control. "That's one line we're going to have to establish."

"Mmmm?" Emma asks, sounding like she's enjoying her hot chocolate entirely *too* much.

"That," I say. "Sex. I've got... assocations with it, that I'm going to need to break. So I'm not going to be able to have any for the time being."

"And you think I might be able to sway you from this virtuous path?" she almost purrs.

I know she's only teasing.

But.

It's really not helping.

I can't help but smile anyway. "I think we both know you could, effortlessly. Darling."

She preens, a little exaggeratedly "It's so nice to know that I haven't lost my touch."

"Also, it wouldn't hurt for you to *not* use your sexuality as a distraction whenever you're feeling uncomfortable."

Emma sighs. "You can be such a spoilsport, Ms Prentiss."

"Well, at least for now." I shrug a little. "I'm not saying it can't be fun in its own place."

She looks at me, a little more seriously, but still with a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Is that you obliquely asking me out, Emily?"

"Not at the moment. But I wouldn't want to rule it out down the line."

"I think I could be persuaded to wait for that. By the right person."

I have to smile at that. "And am I the right person?"

She smirks. "Why don't you find out? When you're ready."

"Maybe I will. Maybe I won't."

She rolls her eyes a little, and mutters something that could be, "Infuriating woman," under her breath. But she has a smile on her face, and it just warms me.

I finally take a sip of my hot chocolate, and it's pleasant, just the right temperature. And, as I sit back and relax in my chair, there's really nowhere else I'd rather be.


	9. Epilogue

I lay back and stare at the ceiling, still breathing a little deeply, wrapped in languid warmth.

Huh.

"Are you *going* to share any of those covers, darling, or are you just planning on hogging them all yourself," comes Emma's only slightly peevish voice whispering into my ear.

I consider for a moment. "Hog," I finally say.

"Don't think I'm not going to hit you with a pillow," she murmurs. "In a minute or two," she adds after a slight pause.

I turn to look at her, and can't help smiling at the sight of her in disarray. "So."

"So," she agrees.

"I guess this means that we're dating now."

She raises an eyebrow. "As a continuation of warfare by other means?"

I have to laugh. "Isn't that diplomacy?"

Emma snorts. "There is *nothing* diplomatic about us, darling. And it's 'politics', not 'diplomacy'. If you're going to throw pithy book quotes at me, the least you can do is get them correct."

"I'll try better next time."

"Please do." Her smile becomes a little wicked. "I'd hate to have to assign you remedial homework."

I close my eyes. "There is something deeply and fundamentally wrong about having just had sex..."

"Hot, enjoyable and extremely enthusiastic sex," she corrects.

"Hot, enjoyable and extremely enthusiastic sex with a school teacher." I open my eyes. "For that matter, there's something deeply and fundamentally wrong about *you* being a school teacher."

"I'm hurt." She doesn't sound it. In the slightest. There's a pause, then she asks a little more quietly. "Are you alright?"

I pause, run through how I'm feeling, how I'm reacting. "I think so. Besides..." I smile at her.

She raises her eyebrows in inquiry.

"I'm kind of surprised we lasted *this* long. It's been at least three months since... I thought I was going to burst."

"Tell me about it," she sighs. "I am *far* from used to having to go without."

"I'll try to make sure that doesn't happen again," I say a little sardonically.

"Please do."

Just then my phone buzzes. It's JJ. Apparently there's a case.

Great.

I get to my feet, a little stiffly.

It's definitely been too long.

"Work?" Emma asks.

For a moment, I almost slip into my work mode. But I don't have to, not around her. So I just offer her a slight smile. "Unfortunately."

She gets to her feet with a lot more elegance than I displayed while I throw my clothes on, wraps herself in her dressing gown and sees me to the door.

"I'll see you when you get back? It seems only fair since you're depriving me of round two right now."

"Absolutely."

"You do owe me," she reminds, then kisses me. "Take care."

I love you, I almost tell her. I settle for "I will," and "You too," instead.

Maybe some day soon.

She looks at me as if she knows anyway, as if she's been cheating.

I trust her enough that I almost hope she is.

And maybe some day will be sooner than I think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here ends the longest series of stories I've ever written. It's taken me almost two years to complete, and I hope those readers I still have are satisfied with the conclusion.
> 
> I'm not entirely happy myself - I do think that I was possibly a little overambitious in my vision. Especially considering that Faces was planned to be a one-off, though I knew even then the broad shape such a story would have to take. If anyone has any constructive criticism, I'd losve to hear it.
> 
> And now to get used to life without this looming over my head in some fashion. :)


End file.
